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gamersguide · 4 months

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PRINCE OF PERSIA: THE LOST CROWN | GAMERS GUIDE REVIEW

The desert wind whispers through all of us, not just across my sun-baked skin, but into the bones. It carries the faintest echo of clanging scimitars and desperate leaps across impossible chasms. For a Prince of Persia fan, that’s more than just a breeze; it’s a battle cry, a siren song calling us back to a golden age of sand-dusted acrobatics and time-defying feats. The first time I scaled the Palace walls, fingers scrabbling for purchase on ancient brick. My heart echoed the Prince’s cocky bravado, each step a defiance against gravity and destiny. And the Sands of Time! To rewind a misstep, a brush with death, and try again, a dance with fate as exhilarating as it was terrifying.

Years have passed, kingdoms traversed, sandcastles built and washed away by the tide of new games. Yet, the Prince’s shadow lingers, a silhouette forever etched against the crimson sunset of a thousand afternoons spent glued to the screen. The parkour flows through my dreams, the witty banter a soundtrack to my imagination. Now, a new whisper ripples through the desert. The Last Crown gleams, a promise of untold adventure. My fingers twitch, yearning for the cold comfort of a scimitar hilt, the familiar weight of responsibility settling on our shoulders. But is it really a wow thing? Here’s my review of The Lost Crown:

The Last Crown is a 2024 action-adventure platformer game developed and published by Ubisoft. It is the latest installment in the Prince of Persia series, and it takes players on a journey through a mythical Persian world filled with danger and excitement.

Storyline:

Sargon, our newest hero, steps into the spotlight, not a prince by blood, but one forged in the fire of the Immortals, an elite warrior clan. His quest? To rescue Prince Ghassan from the clutches of the cursed city of Mount Qaf, a perilous journey echoing the classic hero’s call. But Sargon’s path is paved not just with blades and treacherous platforms, but with the intriguing twist of time manipulation. This ain’t your grandpa’s Sands of Time rewind. Here, we dance with echoes, crafting clones, slowing moments to a crawl, and even rewinding entire timelines. It’s a mind-bending ballet of combat and puzzle-solving, pushing the boundaries of what we thought possible in this beloved franchise.

Speaking of boundaries, The Last Crown breaks free from the linear corridors of the past. Sprawling, interconnected environments beg exploration, each biome boasting its own secrets and challenges. Sun-drenched deserts give way to verdant mountain valleys, crumbling ruins whisper forgotten lore, and the mythical Mount Qaf itself, a gravity-defying labyrinth, promises to redefine platforming as we know it.

But where are the familiar echoes of the past? Fear not, for the spirit of the series resonates in every leap and parry. The acrobatic combat is a symphony of steel and silk, each fluid movement a testament to Sargon’s skill. Witty banter punctuates the tension, reminding us of the Prince’s trademark charm. And those who still yearn for the Sands of Time will find echoes in the manipulation of time, albeit in a fresh, innovative form. So, is The Last Crown a mere retread of old glories? Absolutely not. It’s an evolution, a reinvention that honors the past while blazing a bold new trail. It’s a love letter to fans

Theme:

The central theme rests on Sargon’s journey of self-discovery. Thrust into the mantle of hero as an outsider to the royal lineage, he grapples with the expectations thrust upon him. Through his trials, he forges his own path, earning the respect of his comrades and ultimately defining his place in the world, not through inherited royalty but through his own courage and skill. This echoes the series’ enduring message: heroism can bloom in the most unexpected places. The concept of legacy casts a long shadow. The game explores the burden of living up to the deeds of ancestors, with Ghassan struggling under the weight of his royal legacy and Sargon navigating the expectations attached to the Immortals. It asks us to consider the complex relationship between history and personal choice, questioning whether we define ourselves by the achievements of the past or carve our own unique path.

Time itself becomes a thematic tool. The manipulation of echoes and timelines delves into the consequences of our actions, inviting us to contemplate the potential for change and the ripple effects of decisions. It raises questions about responsibility and regret, reminding us that every choice carries weight and shapes the tapestry of our own past, present, and future. However, a critical analysis reveals some cracks in the thematic facade. Sargon’s journey, while compelling, can feel derivative of previous Prince of Persia narratives, lacking the emotional depth of the Sands of Time trilogy. The exploration of legacy, while intriguing, sometimes gets overshadowed by the action-packed gameplay, and the consequences of manipulating time remain largely hypothetical, never truly impacting the narrative in a profound way.

Despite the shortcomings, The Last Crown’s thematic threads offer engaging food for thought. It invites us to ponder our own identities, the legacies we leave behind, and the power of our choices. While not universally groundbreaking, it provides a layer of depth beyond the acrobatic spectacle, enriching the experience for those who seek meaning beyond the thrill of the chase. Ultimately, The Last Crown’s themes are like an echo of the past, familiar yet with a distinct twist. It offers a thought-provoking exploration of identity and destiny, even if it doesn’t quite reach the emotional heights of its predecessors. It remains a worthy addition to the series, with its thematic core adding depth and resonance to the acrobatic adventure.

Gameplay:

Sargon’s movement is a joy to behold. He flows across rooftops with the grace of a dancer, scaling walls with effortless parkour precision. Wall runs, ledge grabs, and daring leaps weave into a symphony of skill, putting your platforming prowess to the test. Each successful maneuver feels like a reward, and mastering the intricate sequences becomes addictive. The game’s signature twist comes in the form of time manipulation. You can rewind moments, slow down time, and even create echoes of yourself to solve puzzles and overcome obstacles. This adds a layer of strategic depth, forcing you to think creatively and experiment with different temporal possibilities.

From swift parries to brutal takedowns, combat is a fast-paced ballet of steel. You wield swords, daggers, and even a bow, chaining together combos and utilizing Sargon’s special abilities to dispatch enemies. The combat system is responsive and rewarding, encouraging aggressive play while punishing reckless button mashing. The Last Crown embraces an open-world structure, allowing you to explore sprawling, interconnected environments at your own pace. Hidden secrets, collectible treasures, and optional side quests abound, rewarding exploration and encouraging meticulous scouring of every nook and cranny. Environmental puzzles weave seamlessly into the gameplay, testing your observation skills and understanding of time manipulation mechanics. They range from simple block-pushing to mind-bending temporal paradoxes, offering variety and keeping the pace fresh.

While the core gameplay elements feel familiar to Prince of Persia fans, The Last Crown introduces welcome innovations. The time manipulation mechanics are a breath of fresh air, and the open-world design offers unprecedented freedom. Yet, the game retains the spirit of the franchise, with acrobatic thrills and witty banter driving the experience. However, some caveats deserve mention. The open-world structure can feel repetitive at times, with some environments lacking the distinct personality of earlier Prince of Persia games. The combat, while fun, can get button-mashy in extended encounters, and the puzzles, while varied, don’t always reach the brain-bending complexity of previous titles.

Graphics:

The Last Crown paints a visual canvas, employing a vibrant, stylized art style that blends seamlessly with its mythical Persian setting. Here’s a closer look at its graphical flourishes:

The deserts bask in a warm, golden glow, emphasizing the rugged beauty of cracked canyons and windswept dunes. Lush oases offer a vibrant contrast, teeming with emerald greens and sapphire blues. Ancient ruins stand bathed in a mystical aura, their intricate carvings and towering structures whispered of a bygone era. Mount Qaf, defying gravity itself, is a feast for the eyes.

Sargon and his companions move with fluid grace, their armor and clothing rendered with meticulous attention to texture and design. Facial expressions are rich and expressive, bringing emotions to life during both intense combat and heartfelt conversations. Sunbeams pierce through dust motes, casting dramatic shadows across crumbling walls. Glowing waterfalls illuminate hidden caverns, while flickering torches dance in the night, creating an immersive atmosphere. Sand swirls in mesmerizing dances, magical energies crackle with vibrant hues, and shattered pottery fragments scatter with realistic physics. These details add a layer of depth and believability to the world.

The game embraces a stylized approach, with exaggerated silhouettes and vibrant colors reminiscent of Persian miniatures. This lends a unique charm to the visuals, setting it apart from the hyper-realistic aesthetic of many AAA titles. However, a graphical analysis wouldn’t be complete without acknowledging some potential drawbacks. While the stylized approach is beautiful, it may not appeal to everyone who craves gritty realism. Textures, while detailed in close-up, can appear blurry at times on certain platforms. And while the environments are diverse, some players might find them formulaic after venturing through several similar environments.

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Originally Published at Gamer's Guide

#prince of persia #the lost crown #gaming article #gaming review

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batterknowsbetter · 3 years

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#іван миколайчук #Ivan Mykolaychuk #Тіні забутих предків #Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors #Wild Horses of Fire #Пропала грамота #The Lost Letter #Білий птах з чорною ознакою #White Bird with Black Mark #Сон #Dream

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ignyxdaughter · 2 years

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𝐕𝐈𝐈 - 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐄

(𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 /𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐤𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐳𝐨𝐯𝐚 𝐱 𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐨𝐧)

READ ON WATTPAD

MASTERLIST

summary: Hope talks to Agatha. Katherine dreams of him again.

word count: 2344

warnings: none

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Hope was nervous. It's been nearly 3 hours the Darkling left and she got a tour of the Little Palace, a chamber and a blue kefta with red embroideries. She spent the whole tour with a watchfulness glance, paying attention to every odd noise in hopes to see Agatha. Levi's letter scared her; she wasn't ready to see her cousin just to not be remembered.

The redhead went through this once and doesn't want to experience again. The loneliness of being forgotten still haunts her in her nightmares. Although it happened on her teenage years, the pain never entirely goes away.

However, she's the only one that can pretend to be a Grisha. Nick is too similar to Agatha; it'll raise suspects about the two of them. Michelle can easily distract herself by Ravka's beauty. Levi is more used to cast spells than summon his own element — earth —; the possibilities of him getting caught by using magic is high. And Katherine... a Shadow Singer would make a fuss as big as the discovery of the Sun Summoner.

The clock's 8 chimes awaken Hope from her reveries. It's time for the first class.

She takes a deep breath with closed eyes before exiting her chambers. It's weird to wear a kefta, to use something that don't belong to you. It feels wrong, as if she was taking advantage of a people culture...

To be fair, she is, but that's not what she means. Besides, the minute her family get Agatha, Hope will give it back to the Grishas. This is a uniform to Infernis, not to Fire Singers.

The Little Palace's training area is huge, with flags of each Grisha orders. She studied enough to know each one: purple to Materialki, blue to Etheralki and red to Corporalki. It's good to see that this people are proud of their powers, and even if they reprimand themselves the entire life, they'll not die by the lack of use it. When witches do this, their magic overwhelms them so much that corrodes their insides until they die, or worse: makes them have a power explosion. There're no records of someone — or anyone near the wizard — who have survived to the latter. It's pure chaos.

"You seem out of place", a well known voice takes all the air off Hope's lungs. She turns around quickly, desperate to see if her cousin is really behind her right now. The redhead wants to cry the minute Agatha comes to her sight. She's with a blue kefta with silver embroideries, her black curly hair tied up in a bun. Good thing to know she's still sociable, though her dark brown eyes haven't got the usual malicious glint.

That sanks Hope's heart.

"I'm Agatha."

"Veronika." The ginger has to control every cell in her body to not give her cousin a big hug.

"New here?" She nods. "I'm here for a month. It's weird, but I'm taking little steps to get used to it. Maybe we can work on this together, don't you think?"

Hope opens her mouth to reply, but is interrupted by Agatha's chuckle. "I'm sorry. I don't even know you and am already acting as a maniac. Is just that... you caught my attention."

"No! No! It's okay."

Her dark brown eyes sparkle. "Oh, thank the Ancestors!"

Agatha puts her hands on her mouth immediately after realizing what she's just said. That's never happened, the thought of Ancestors hasn't even crossed her mind. It was spontaneous, and didn't feel weird at all. To be honest, it's like she had said this expression for her entire life! Maybe this is something from her past?

Hope smiles at the scene. For what it seems, her cousin's haven't said something like that since she lost her memories. It's a witch expression, which shows that the faith in the Ancestors is still strong as ever in Agatha's mind. It's a good sign.

The fight instructor yells for the Grishas to pair up and duel. The redhead takes a quick glance at the area full of people starting to warm up and then looks back at the hybrid. "Want to be my duo?"

Agatha shakes her head, quickly getting out of her thoughts, and faces the other woman. "Infernis usually pair up with each other."

She shrugs. "I'm new here, remember?"

"I don't—"

"Please, Agatha! I arrived today and like you. I don't want to seem lonely!"

She sighs. "Ok, but you need to know that I'll get out the minute the power training starts."

Hope frowns. "Why?"

"The General wants the best professor for me. I'll explain you at lunchtime."

"Ok. No more questions, then."

Agatha smirks, the same way she always does when she's enjoys something. "You're cool, Veronika. I like you."

"And I like—" love "you, Agatha."

The training goes well. For a minute, it's like nothing has changed. The girls avert every attack and try the hardest to knock the other out. Hope does everything to do blows her cousin knows in an attempt to unblock a memory. Agatha, on the other hand, noticed that this is the best duel she had in all her time here. Everything's so natural. She oddly feels comfortable with the ginger — more comfortable than with anyone at the Little Palace, more comfortable than with Gelya, the person who is staying by her side every tough day. A fuzzy feeling takes over her heart, as if it was telling her that Veronika is someone that she can befriend, moreover, trust. She really hopes that the Inferni doesn't disappoint her.

Oh, if she only knew that the last thing the redhead would do was let her down. If it crossed Agatha's mind that this woman is not only a person she likes, but someone she loves with all of her heart and soul...

"Change!" The fight instructor's yell makes the two of them tiredly stop. However, stuck on their own little bubble, the women don't see some Grishas looking at them in shock. Astonishment because someone finally has tired Agatha.

"Your stamina is still high", Hope says panting.

Agatha frowns. "What?"

She looks up, frozen. "What?"

The other opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted by Botkin's yell telling her she needs to go to her power training lesson. Agatha huffs, though trying to catch her breath, and faces the redhead. "I gotta go. See you?"

Hope smiles. "Lunchtime."

She mimics the happy expression before nodding and heading to Baghra's cabin — to her utterly disgust. Just the thought of getting hit with that cane makes her shiver.

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Agatha runs to the nearest spot to the Infernis at lunchtime, which don't go unnoticed by Mikhail and Zoya. They've trained together this morning, and were the firsts to see the newcomer fighting with the Squaller. Although is a little bit unusual to see this two kind of Grishas together in a practice, they've ignored until realize that the redhead was the only one that had tired Agatha in a fight. This shocked them at the level to find out everything about the newcomer. Mikhail was curious, but Zoya... Deep down her heart's core is fear, fear of being replaced again, especially after witnessing that for the first time no one payed attention to the Sun Summoner's training.

Hope smiles when she sees that her cousin reserved a chair for her. She's optimistic that Agatha's memory will come back, she just needs a little help.

As the redhead goes sit by the dark skinned woman's side, she notices Alina Starkov's arrival by the glances going to her. She's pretty, with her brown hair in a cute hairstyle and Shu Han traces. She shyly sits between a Squaller and a Inferni and tries to not show her uncomfortableness at the food taster in front of her. Hope doesn't blame her, she'd hate this kind of actions if it was for her.

But then, a handmaiden goes behind Alina to serve some water. She'd recognize that arrogant mien everywhere. For some people, Katherine'd seem submissive, just a servant doing her job, but Hope knows that she's trying with all of her forces to not make a hateful expression.

The ginger laughs seeing her cousin fake grin after Alina smiles at her. That doesn't go unheeded by Katherine, who gives her a surly face.

If you say a word, I'll kill you. She says in Hope's mind.

She chokes on her own a laugh. I'd like to see you try.

I hate you. And then go away to serve water to other Grishas.

"What are you laughing at?" The tribid looks at Agatha, who's with a confused frown. She makes a mental note to tell her this when she gets her memories back.

"Oh! I remembered an old joke, that's all."

"Tell me!"

"Ok. When do werewolves go trick or treating?"

She's silent for a few seconds, thinking about the answer, but ends up shrugging. "I don't know. When?"

"Howl-o-ween."

That's a terrible joke.

Shut up. Hope rolls her blue eyes at Katherine's voice. We used to hear it when we were kids. Maybe it'll trigger a memory.

She looks at Agatha, who is with an unbelievable glance. "You believe in werewolves?"

See what you've done?

Go serve your Sun Summoner more water.

You little—

"I don't only believe but have seen one."

"No way! How they're like?!"

"Beautiful, but it's a lethal beauty, one that you can see its danger miles away."

"And did they attack you?"

Hope's chuckle is of pure arrogance. "They wish."

Agatha has a skeptical look. "You really think you'd win a werewolf?"

"I know I'd win."

She rolls her eyes, but shrugs it off. "I wish I knew a werewolf."

The ginger woman sweetly smiles. "You will. They're closer than you can imagine."

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Katherine is frustrated. She spent the whole day after Alina, taking orders from a Sun Summoner, a Tailor and humans and hearing dumb insecurities and silly stories about a man named Mal, boring gossips and "funny" complaints about a woman called Baghra. The witch is really getting her patience tested here; she could have spent this whole wasted time studying and trying to find a memory spell. Though it all changed when Genya, the Tailor and the Tsaritza's personal Grisha, said that this Baghra would get worse with Alina if she doesn't learn how to conjure or control her light.

She's considered a saint, but isn't able to produce her own power? Katherine questioned herself while cleaning the bedroom they were in. This is worse than I thought!

Her day was exhausting, of course, but nothing she wouldn't survive. However, although her tiredness, she felt something in it made everything worth it. And she new what.

The Darkling.

Although she's already been in Ravka in her teenage years and heard about a boy that could summon shadows, this time is different. She never met the boy, her possible equal, which disappointed her. But now she did, and she'll not lose that opportunity again.

Katherine has so many questions. Does he shadow travel? How old is he? Who taught him all he knows? How did he rise in Second Army? Was he ever isolated by other children for having a different power?

She wants to know him, listen to his stories and share her experiences with him. Would he be comfortable to knowledge that she is a witch instead of a Grisha?

The General was surprisinly kind to her, even called her by her first name. It'd be nice to hear her real name from him, but she knew this wouldn't happen; after all, none shall know her true identity or mission. Agatha's memory must be priority despite her wishes. Family always comes first.

The woman stops walking suddenly. He asked her about the hanging tree. Did he question it because of her astonishment or due to other reasons? Well, in spite of any motives, she mustn't talk. A hanging tree is sacred; the place where so many lives were taken in favor of a meaningless social order, the nature's spot where 13 witches were sacrificed so the Salem hunters would stop terrorizing the others. Since that fateful day, a hanging tree is sacred for the wizard community. Every August 19th, the apex of the Salem Witch Trials, witches of all over the world go to a hanging tree and light candles to pray for the doomed souls.

This is their tradition. It's wrong to share with others something so intimate.

Katherine sighs and head to the library Levi told her. Maybe studying will clear her mind. She have to forget her frustrations and focus on Agatha.

The library is huge, with tall windows and massive bookshelves. There are tables for study and couches and armchairs for reading. It's a comfortable place, and Katherine wishes she could see it during the day; it must be breathtaking.

She goes to a shelf where there are books in Norse runes. Usually those are the ones with the most powerful spells. Katherine picks up one and sits on an armchair near a window, the moonlight iliminating the old pages.

Her eyelids go heavy as time pass, and suddenly, she's asleep.

She finds herself alone in a dark place, her shadows enveloping her in comfortable warmth. Is all so calm; it's the peace she doesn't have. Katherine has had this dream enough to know what will happen. She'll sing her favorite songs to the dark, enjoying the comfort of silent. However, she's not alone tonight. She can feel it. But it's not a threatning presence.

It's the same man from the last dream. A tall masculine figure who quietly listens to her melody, the person she asks a question everytime after a song. He wants to meet him, to know who is the face behind the shadow she so desire to see.

Last time, he was the first one to make a question, and she answered with another one. So, tonight Katherine extends her arm to him, wishing this will make him see her face too, and questions the same thing he did:

Who are you?

Who are you? He answers, his voice alterated from the deep darkness in the environment.

Can you see me?

I'm afraid not.

Me neither.

There's a brieth silence before the man speaks again. Are you real?

I am. And you?

I am.

Katherine wakes up without knowing his last sentence, her pounding heart the only proof of the need to find this man.

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A/N: English is not my first language. I’m gonna mix the books and the tv show to make the story line clearer (I read soc, the grisha trilogy and its tales). I don’t own Shadow and Bone and TO/Legacies characters; they’re, respectively, Leigh Bardugo, L. J. Smith and Julie Plec. Also, this is how I think the Darkling is,and some of the events will be changed due to the story's course!

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lo-55 · 3 years

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Revel Ch. 13

Crowns and Kings

They spent months on the island.

Tori all but lived in the library, she spent hours each day with Robin and the books, transcribing everything she could get her hands on. Each paper went into wax lined crates that would keep them safe from water on the return trip.

She had gotten so much.

Thousands of books, she barely remembered all of what was in them, were stacked away in her ship. She would take them home, guard them and hide them until it was safe enough to start copying them into real books again.

Each day she spent with Robin she grew more and more fond of the girl.

The first time Robin slipped up and used her devil fruit Tori very intentionally didn’t flinch. She just took the book from her extra hands and moved on, leaving the little wide eyed girl to watch her with wonder. She had to explain, later that night, on the ship, that the New World was filled with devil fruits, and their devourers. Tori could name three off the top of her head that she knew personally, and Cracker’s family had plenty of them.

The look on that little girl's face…

She started eating dinner with them, and before long she was on the ship more than she was in her own house. She had a million and a half questions about the Grand Line, and Totto Land and all of the other devil fruits that they knew. She asked Cracker about his island and his responsibilities, and about being a pirate.

Tori was seriously considering asking her to come along with them when they left when the message came from home.

In Flora’s handwriting it arrived in the early morning light , on the wings of a seabird.

Tori sat that night with Robin and Cracker. Bright children, beautiful people.

She lay the letter on the table once it was cleared.

“My father is dead,” she said. Quiet, but true.

Robin gasped, covering her mouth.

Cracker’s seemingly eternal smile wilted and died.

Yet, it was Tori who didn’t quite react. She didn’t know how. This was her father and he was dead. The man who raised her, and Lucien, and Gemma. The man who held her hand when they cast her mother into the afterlife. The man who wept for his wife only when the rest of the country could not see.

The man who, one by one, sold his children off to the highest bidders. The man who implemented the sexist ideals of his homelands on his eldest daughter, but not his younger.

Tori didn’t know how to feel. She had spent the last year, almost two years, unable to forgive for breaking her mothers promise. And now he was dead.

He was dead.

She was queen. Or would be soon.

“I’m so sorry,” Robin said softly.

“Yeah. I am too,” she nodded absently. “That means, that my time here is done,” she said quietly. She watched Robin’s face fall. Even leaving now, Tori would never be back in time for the funeral. She would come home to her father already gone, his throne barren.

“Oh…”

Tori reached across the table and took the girls small hands in her own. She couldn’t imagine truly changing the future. She couldn’t stop wars or change the tide, but this one little girl-

“Robin. I want you to come with me,” she said softly. “Away from your aunt. You could see the Grand Line, you could see the New World. You could learn more than just what’s in books, and you could be around people like you. You’re no more a devil child than I am, sweetheart.”

Tears started to well up in Robin’s eyes.

“Do you want to come home with me, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” she gasped out, “Yes, I do. I want to come with you.”

Robins small hands squeezed hers, but there was something in her eyes. Tori knew that look.

“But?” she prompted, sadly.

“But, I can’t. I’m waiting for my mom to come back.”

“Oh honey....” Tori couldn't fault her for it. Not when she would do anything to speak to her own mother again.

“I’m sorry,” Robin grasped at her hands. “I want to, but I can’t! I need to wait for my mother.”

“It’s okay,” Tori murmured. “It’s okay, I promise. I understand. Just don’t forget, my invitation to Imperia always stands, okay?”

Robin nodded with a watery smile.

She stayed with them that night, and long after she had fallen asleep Tori got on the shell-phone and called her husband.

She needed to talk to him. She needed to ask him a favor.

The Great Room was ancient. It was a relic from another time, left over from a civilization that was spoken of only in whispers. Even the true name had been lost to the sands of time. It had been maintained carefully since antiquity, but never upgraded. No electric lights, no indoor plumbing, nothing of the sort.

It was exactly as their ancestors had left it, the day that Tori walked in with her husband.

With a high ceilings that’s paint had not faded with time it was just large enough to fit Katakuri inside without him smacking into anything. The rectangular pool that took up the center of the room was still and undisturbed, an inky black that betrayed nothing of what lay beneath the surface. At the head of the pond was a massive throne made of shining gold, the sun blazed on its back. Standing opposite of it was a throne of equal magnificents, with the moon shining in soft pearl light. For the god and the goddess who watched over their people, the sun and the moon whose names time had forgotten. Those seats remained empty, always, for none stood above the gods.

On both sides of the still pool were lined eight obsidian goblets in which fire burned. Every other cup held blue to red fire, always. Blue was the color for delegates from each island, Imperia, Soldano, Aosta and Pamence. Red was reserved for outsiders. The fire was the only light in the room, where windows of colored glass diffused sunlight until the only good it did was to show old depictions of the kings and queens of a golden age.

When she was young, Tori had spent hours in the room, staring up at the incandescent glass, the men and women trapped inside of them. Dressed in their finery, unsmiling. She wanted to know their names. Their places in this world. She wanted to know what they had done in their lives, how they lead their people, how they had lived within their gilded cages.

Now, sitting in front of a red fire with her husband hunched at her side, she wondered again.

The world had lost its memory of the time before, would they lose it again? When she died, would anyone remember who she was? Or would she, too, be no more than a stained glass window for her descendents to look upon and wonder.

To the right of her was the current Doge of Soldano, an ancient man with a sunken face that barely hid the fact that his eyes were blown huge once more. Ziani Ipato had been voted the Doge after Victoria’s mother had died, all those years ago, and when he died in the coming winter a new leader would be elected for the island. That was how it had always been done.

Soldano voted their Doge or Dogaressa in for a life long term. Only death or abdication would end their reign. Pemence called their leader Viceroy and Vicereine, who were chosen by a small council of the five head clans of each island. They, too, served for life if they were not voted out or chose to give up power. Aosta also used the term Viceroy for their leader, but the difference lay in that the successor was chosen directly by the predecessor. Imperia alone passed the title of King or Queen from parent to child.

Ziani Ipato had brought no guest, and so the red goblet to his right burned for no one.

Directly across from Tori, who was close enough to the silver throne she could have shook hands with the goddess it was built for, sat Galla Tradonico, Viceroy of Pamence. The red fire beside him lit up the dark shadows of a youthful face. Pietro, his young ward, who couldn’t quite hide the way he fidgeted with his fingers.

That was nothing compared to the deathly pale face of Pisana Capello. The Vicereine looked deathly, more ghost than girl in the cerulean light that danced across her ashen cheeks. Her eyes were wide, white all around and her hands were clenched into such tight fists Tori swore she could hear them creak. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, some had greatness thrust upon them.

Some fall ass backwards into greatness.

That, was Pisana.

She had been the Vicereine for one and half years, and Aosta was starting to fall apart. Hector Ruzzini had, it was said, decided that the next person to enter his room would be his successor when he lay on his deathbed. No one knew with any measure of certainty whether he recalled that he had summoned his favorite prostitute to see him one last time, if he wanted to spit on his bloodthirsty children one last time and put a whore before his own sons, or if he had forgotten and stuck to his guns.

All Tori knew was that Vitale and Nicolo had been after her head ever since. Called lawyers and councilmen to try and overturn the decision, saying that their father was out of his right mind at the time and one of them should rule instead. That Pisana was unfit to lead men anywhere but into her bed. Tori wouldn’t be surprised if, after all that had failed, they had moved on to trying to poison the poor girl.

As it was she had brought along a stone faced advisor who Tori recognized as Girolamo Mocenigo, Hector’s old friend, closest confidant, and former lover. A good choice. Girolamo loved his country and his Viceroy more than anything. He would honor his decision and keep as much peace as he could.

They did not have a representative from Corsica, which was largely populated by Greenmen who had no desire to leave their island, and cared little for anyone outside of their own. They would not come to see her crowned.

“I thank you all for coming here,” Tori said at last. She tilted her chin up to look at Galla, who was easily a head taller than she was. The people of their islands were all larger than natural born humans, but still nothing compared to Big Mom’s brood.

Galla nodded to her. Pietro tried for a watery smile. He had fostered at their home for some ten years before he returned to Galla and Pamence. He knew her father well.

“We are sorry for your loss,” he intoned gravely.

A thick wave of rose, sage, and frankincense billowed gently with his breath. The incense burned in four corners, filling her lungs. She let out a breath, nodded once to Galla. She would speak to Pietro later, in private, where they could properly grieve.

For now, she only smiled at him.

“We look forward to your leadership,” Pisana jumped in quickly. Girolamo glared hard at her and the girls teeth clicked together. Custom said that no one would speak of her rule until the coronation day.

Still, Victoria smiled at her. She couldn't imagine being thrust into so much power at once. A place where social convention was so strict, she had made many blunders already. Tori didn’t mind. She understood.

“Thank you, Pisana. Let us pray for all our sakes that we may lead our islands into a good future,” she recited the words like a hymn, her voice musical even in mourning.

“Agreed,” Ziani nodded once. He held his knobby hands up as though cupping water only he could see. “The business of the coronation now. You will hold it on Mt. Pernases, now you must decide who will bear witness.”

“No,” Tori shook her head. Her father had taken up his crown on the flat top of that mountain, where the spring bubbled up from beneath the earth, hot enough to burn. Her grandmother had done the same, and her mother, and her fathers father, as far back as their records went.

“No?” Ziani turned his face towards her, as though trying squint at her with his dark eyes. “You must have witnesses or no one can prove you were properly coronated.”

Tori carefully hid a smile. “I will have many witnesses. The whole country may bear my witness if they so wish, for I will not wear my crown upon the mountain first. I will be crowned on the Breach.”

There was a beat of silence. Pisana looked at her advisor, searching for help. Galla cleared his throat politely.

“A very humorous gesture, my lady, but this is serious business,” he said. Pietro was staring hard at her. He knew she didn’t joke about things like this. He knew she was serious.

“It is not humorous at all, my lord,” she said smoothly, “It is what I intend to do.”

“You cannot go against tradition so blatantly, with such little respect for your ancestors!” Ziani was suitably scandalized. Good. She thought viciously.

“I can and I shall. The world is changing. Imperia must change as well, lest we be left behind. We will not attend the Reverie this coming year,” she went on, “We will take our time mourning my father, and we will grow stronger with the trial his death had brought upon us, rest his soul.”

“Rest his soul,” the others chorused. Pietro crossed himself.

“You speak of strength yet you would throw your country into malcontent, going against the most ancient of rites?” Ziani demanded. His voice grew louder, echoing ominously off of the pristine marble walls. It was said that no lies could be told within the chamber. Tori had never tried to find out.

Tori folded her hands in her lap, soaking up the quiet mountain of solidarity that Katakuri presented. His eyes narrowed at Ziani.

“She will do as she pleases,” he said blandly. Daring his to talk back again. How she loved him.

“You are an outsider! You have no knowledge of our history, of our honored past-”

“He is my husband,” Tori’s voice swept through, ice cold, “He is to be the King Consort of Imperia, Lord of Komugi. He speaks with the voice of our most noble house and he ceased being an outside the day we wed.”

Silence fell oppressively around them.

Ziani made his disapproval clear with his sharp glower in their direction, but said no more on the matter.

“The coronation will be held on the Breach, within view of any citizen who may wish to see it. We have two months before the mourning period for my father is over. Preparations shall begin at once. You are, of course, all invited,” she added. “The gala where we receive our bereaved fellows will still be held in Villa Procida...”

By the time the sun ceased lighting the depiction of a queen holding a bloody sword over her head almost everything was sorted out, from funding to trade to interim ambassadors while the real ones were recalled.

Tori stood smoothly and held out her hand for his husband, who took it without question or comment. Together, they exited the great room and walked into the crisp night air.

Tori stood in a moonwhite dress that burned in the light of the setting sun.

The Breach glistened, the churn of the water sparkling like the diamonds that dotted her sea-dark hair. Her dress was simple and plain, and she wore no make up save white paint across her lids and lips. The shores were lined with her people, a million eyes upon her.

Orso stood at her elbow, and Madelle at the opposite. At her side was her husband, who had agreed to wear white for this occasion himself and held his tritan in hand. A man and woman familiar with her virtues, to present her again to the Enchantress and the eldest priest.

They stood before her, the moon and the ocean while the sun died slowly on the horizon.

Tori let her gaze wander to the people come to see her. She was shattering tradition with this move. Men and women in white, mourning dresses formed a wall that looked like snow bordering the glimmering water. The Breach, where two long fingers of land came together with just enough space between them for a single ship to pass, was packed with spectators.

It was a shock to Tori that she saw movement off in the trees, flickers of green a shade off from the jungle leaves.

Greenmen come to watch a coronation was unheard of.

So was having a coronation where the consort was an outsider and they were presented to the entire population of the island.

Wind pulled at Tori’s skirts and she took a breath, drawing strength from the quiet, firm presence of Katakuri. She could imagine her parents at her other side, her mother filled with a dutiful pride and her father with a stern certainty that this was for the best.

She opened her eyes when the priest spoke.

“Victoria di Imperia. Child of the Sea, daughter of Lysander de Imperia and Dolce Regina Genova. You are sworn to this island, and to her people by blood right and rearing. Do you deny this?”

“I do not,” she said firmly, lifting her chin. She made steady eye contact with the man, in his fine robes that shine with silver spider silks.

“You are childless. Do you deny this?”

“I do not.”

“You have a wed, do you deny this?”

Tori resisted the urge to role her eyes or point to her husband. Instead, she let out only the smallest huff of irritation.

“I do not.”

“You are heiress and princess. You are blood of the sea and raised of the earth. Is it your intention to guard this land, which raised you from your infancy, no matter the personal cost?”

“It is,” she made sure her voice carried to all to hear.

“And is it your intention to put forth the interests of the people over your own? To be fair and just?”

“It is.”

“Is it your intention to put the land of Imperia over your own desires? “

“It is.”

The priest turned to her husband. There were a dozen questions he was meant to ask, but Katakuri must have frightened the man more than Tori would have expected, for the priest bowed his head.

“Charlotte Katakuri di Imperia, Governer of Komugi. Is it your intention to support Victoria di Imperia as King Consort, for so long as you are able?”

He gave a single, rumbled. “It is.”

“Please bow your head,” the priest instructed.

The Enchantress came forth while Katakuri dropped his head low enough for her to bring a circlet of gold to rest in his mulberry hair.

“ You shall be King Consort.”

She intoned gravely. Her words fell from her lips and cracked against his brow before scattering in shards of black across his skin and sinking in. The power in her voice nearly made Tori tremble.

“Victoria. Please bow your head.”

Tori did. She bowed so lowed her hair would have tumbled into the water if she hadn’t had it pinned behind her head.

The gold and red crown that had once graced her mothers brow was settled into her dark curls.

“ You will be Queen.”

And so she was.

Tori rose, as did Katakuri, until they stood before her people in all their glory. Her heart beat like a humming bird in her heart. Above them the sky cracked and roared with red and yellow and green. Fireworks screamed into the sky. Tori took her husbands hand in hers and lifted them into the sky while a roar ripped through the crowds.

Madelle and Orso cleared them a path back to the mainland, off the thin peninsulas, and into town. They walked through the people, Tori smiling and grieving in turns, and Katakuri standing her loyal shadow, her beloved consort. He was frightening next to her but…

With the crown on his head and the queen on his arm, her people greeted him gladly and with warmth that she had not expected.

She didn’t know how many people she spoke to, how many times she promised to do her best for their sakes before they finally arrived in the villa. It was their only escape, and it would only last a few minutes before the dignitaries made their way in and started trying to curry favor.

Tori held Katakuri’s hand tightly in the brief quiet they had to themselves.

“I hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into,” she said, breathless. “This is a life long position.”

“I know,” he told her, his voice strangely soft. “I promised to be by your side for life when we were married. Don’t you remember?”

Tori smiled at him.

“Oh, I remember. Your mother picked out that scaled scarf didn’t she? That was so gaudy…”

“Are you insulting Mama?” Katakuri cocked a brow.

Tori paused before she realized he was teasing her, then broke into a grin that she hadn’t felt on Imperia in years.

“Perhaps I am. What will you do about it?”

Katakuri squeezed her hand. There was something different in his eyes. Something she hadn’t seen before. He was nervous. Nervous and indecisive. Why…?

Tori brought his hand to her lips. “Thank you, for staying with me when things get hard.”

She must have made up his mind with that, for he reached for his face and grasped his scarf. His shield. His defense. Tori watched, her lips parted with shock, as he pulled it down and out of the way. Until it hung around his throat.

She knew, consciously. What he was hiding. His scars. But knowing and seeing were different things, as she kept relearning recently.

They were not pretty. The skin was pulled together by rough stitches and jagged when it had ripped when he was so young. It was silver closer to his ears the way old scars were and faded into red closer to the corners of his mouth, as if it reopened periodically. His lips were parted with jagged teeth that poked through like a bulldogs.

He was watching her. Waiting and tense.

Tori put her hand on his shoulder, grabbed his scarf with her other one, and dragged him down so she could brush her lips against his, feather light and gentle.

“My loving husband,” she murmured, “Thank you.”

She kissed him until they were broth breathless, and mess of sweetness and too much teeth and started giggles when he picked her up with the greatest of ease. They only had a few precious moments to themselves, and she wanted to remember them all like this.

#one piece #one piece fanfiction #katakuri #charlotte Katakuri #katakuri x oc #charlotte cracker #nico robin #victoria di Imperia

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elliemarchetti · 4 years

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Slytherin!Hermione AU (Part 14)

Previous parts

Words: 1509

Everything was quiet, almost boring, until Halloween night: sure, Harry and Ron had arrived at school in Mr. Weasley's flying car after they had lost the Hogwarts Express, and Mrs. Weasley's letter had been nothing short of hilarious, but nothing more happened, beside the boring and unfair fact that Draco’s father brought a place for his son in the Quidditch team by buying new brooms to everyone, and they were all first day’s news, but now they were coming back from Nearly Headless Nick’s deathday party and Harry started to talk about a voice that no one else was able to hear and that was interesting.

"This way," he shouted, sounding a little like a madman, and he began to run up the stairs, into the entrance hall. A knowing look and the four friends followed him but they stopped short when they saw foot-high words daubed on the wall between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming

torches.

“The chamber of secrets has been opened. Enemies of the Heir, beware,” Blaise read aloud.

"What's that thing hanging underneath?" asked Pansy, a slight quiver in her voice. Mrs. Norris, the caretaker's beloved cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. She was stiff as a board, her eyes wide and staring. For a few seconds, they didn't move, then Hermione screamed, which attracted a lot of unwanted attention, but she hardly noticed, her face buried in Blaise's chest, who had held her and Pansy as if he wanted to protect them from that terrible image.

“Enemies of the Heir, beware…” repeated a thoughtful voice. Hermione looked up only to meet Draco’s cold eyes. There was something new in his expression, something she could’ve considered fear or regret. Adrian had also approached them and looked at the younger boy with an expression of contempt: "You are despicable."

"I didn’t do this!" he exclaimed, and he seemed really hurt by the idea that someone could blame him, but his words where partially swallowed up by the cat owner’s voice, who accused Harry, that was still near Mrs. Norris’s body but backed several steps away when the janitor nearly hit him, and he would’ve succeeded if Dumbledore himself, who had rushed to the scene with the other professors, hadn’t stopped him by force.

“It’s impossible!” Ron intruded. “He was with us at Nick’s party and we have a room full of ghosts who can prove it!”

"Come with me, Argus," said the Headmaster to Filch while he was trying to drag him away from the hideous scene.

“We can use my office,” said Lockhart, eagerly. Dumbledore nodded and left the janitor, who seemed to have calmed down and started cried silently. As much as she detested Filch, Hermione couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for him, though not nearly as sorry as she felt for Harry: if the Headmaster believed Filch, he would be expelled for sure and he would’ve been forced to spend another six years with his uncles, who, as he described them, didn’t seem good people.

“You should come too,” said Dumbledore, before gently detaching the corpse from the hook. Hermione never thought she could be accused of plotting with the blood supremacists, but evidently everyone had forgotten that her parents, and all her ancestors before her, beside, obviously, a squib somewhere, that made the magical ability unexpectedly resurface after many generation, were Muggles. And so here she was, even though she could’ve been a nobody among many, in Lockhart's office, accused together with purebloods and Voldemort’s most famous enemy.

"It was definitely a curse that killed her, probably the Transmogrifian Torture. I've seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn't there, I know the very countercurse that would’ve saved her…” Lockhart was saying, but Hermione struggled to follow, too busy listening to Draco, who was trying to convince her that he hadn’t been the author of that threat, and watching Pansy, who was trying not to cry, her face still buried in Blaise's chest, Harry stroking her hair. She wondered if they were annoyed by the fact she was talking to Malfoy but even if they weren’t, they probably would’ve been if they knew she believed him. Meanwhile, Dumbledore was bent over Mrs. Norris, muttering strange words under his breath and tapping her with his wand.

"I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadogou," said Lockhart, covering again Draco’s words "a series of attacks, the full story's in my autobiography: I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once…”

Dumbledore interrupted him but he preceded Hermione with a delay of just seconds as she was about to burst out and scream at him to shut up. She didn’t want to disrespect a professor and he was a man who had done great things, but after the first lesson she doubted that he was still so mighty.

"She's not dead, Argus."

"Not dead?" choked Filch, looking through his fingers at Mrs. Norris. "But why's she all stiff and frozen?"

"She has been Petrified," said Dumbledore, and Hermione tried to remember what she knew about the subject. Other than the Petrificus Totalus spell, not much, to be honest, and that wasn't its result, therefore it had to have something to do with Dark Magic. She glanced sideways at Draco: his father was said to be a Dark Wizard, but even if he was, she couldn’t imagine him, however hateful, would follow that path.

“He did it!" Filch insisted, his face purpling, his skeletal index indicating Harry. "You saw what he wrote on the wall, and he just found out…” the words died in his throat but Hermione, as everyone else in that room, beside, maybe, Draco, knew the rest of the sentence. Harry told them he had found a letter in his office that had led Hermione to the conclusion that he was a squib, and if for a Muggleborn like her it wasn't such a shameful thing, she knew that many purebloods saw it as the worst of shame.

"I never touched Mrs. Norris!" Harry said loudly, and all the eyes in the room were now on him. They had gone to that corridor because Harry had heard something none of them had been able to, but none of his friends were willing to admit it and there was no need for anyone else to know about it, at least until they thought and tried all the possible solutions: as far as they knew, he could only be schizophrenic, something definitely controllable with Muggle drugs, even if the coincidence was decidedly disturbing.

"If I might speak, Headmaster," said Snape, finally emerging from the shadows he was hiding in, and Hermione stiffened because although she was sure he would do anything to exculpate his students, she wasn't sure he would do that, since she wasn’t sure he was able to put his hatred for Harry aside, it didn’t matter if it was to save his House’s face of his own life, he just hated him too strongly. “My student and their friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he concluded after a long pause, a slight sneer curling his mouth ad he though he doubted it. Everyone waited for the rest of the sentence but he didn’t add anything to confirm what his face was saying. Hermione and Blaise exchanged a puzzled look but they had no intention of protesting or drawing attention to them as the Headmaster had just declared them innocent until proven guilty. As he spoke he looked firmly at Filch, who didn’t seem satisfied with the verdict but seemed to have no intention in opposing his greatest ally.

"So can we leave?" Ron asked bravely, but before Dumbledore could say anything Snape replied, saying that he would accompany his students to the dormitories, in light of what had just happened, and he trusted that Professor McGonagall would do the same with hers.

“Of course,” hissed the woman, before putting a hand on the back of each of the two guys belonging to her House and practically pushing them out the door. Although no one felt safer with Snape nearby, not even his students, no one dared to rebel and they walked silently through the corridors with the feeling that something terrible could happen at any moment. Snape turned, just as they expected, into a dark corridor, where there weren't many paintings that could repeat and gossip on his words. Even the ghosts had to keep away from that wing of the castle.

“I don’t know what happened but I know it wasn’t you. This doesn’t mean that I will always be around to get you out of trouble, so try to opt for better companies and an attitude that attracts less attention unless you want to be me the one accusing you, the next time something like this happens,” and with those words, he turned his back on them and went straight where he came from.

#slytherin!hermione AU #hermione granger #blaise zabini #pansy parkinson #draco malfoy #harry potter #ron weasley #severus snape #minerva mcgonagall #albus dumbledore #gilderoy lockhart #argus filch #adrian pucey #hp #cos

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farplane · 5 years

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to the horizon, part two

octobre 2019: morgana and sairsel arroway, freedom, and the future; a direct continuation of to the horizon, part one. ffxiv:stormblood (4.1) spoilers. 5,784 words (part two)

“I have need of you, boy,” said Morgana.

Sairsel glanced over his shoulder at the walkway that led into the palace. “I’m still on watch. You’re aware there’s to be a summit taking place here in less than two days, are you?”

“I’m aware.” It was Morgana’s turn to glance around. “Won’t take long.”

“What, you’re going to finally put me down like a lame chocobo?” Sairsel asked—stupidly, he realized as Morgana’s gaze fell upon him again, perplexed and vaguely annoyed.

“What?”

Gods, he might as well have shrunk then and there. “Bad joke.”

Morgana’s reply was to purse her lips and whistle—mortifyingly, at Leofric. “Oi, Snakesbane. You have an eye on my boy, yes? Be a sweet and fill his post for a spell. Better use of your time than trying to fill something else.”

“Oschon’s balls.”

Leofric raised his eyebrows at Morgana, then glanced over at Sairsel—who had now raised a hand to his face as though it might be enough to hide its colour.

“Ever the poet, Morgana,” Leofric said gracefully. “I’d have said yes even if you hadn’t asked so nicely.”

“Right.” She didn’t spare Leofric even a second glance, nudging Sairsel’s arm and already beginning to walk. “Come on. We haven’t got all evening.”

“I’m sorry,” Sairsel hissed at Leofric, arms outstretched and shaking his head. It earned him a wink, and so he was all too glad to follow after his mother. She always walked like a soldier at march. “Have you decided to make up for twenty years of living without being embarrassed by my mother all in one afternoon?”

“If he’s truly fond of you, he’ll be glad to know that someone who cares is looking after you.”

“I don’t need looking after,” Sairsel said quickly, bristling. “And he’s my bloody unit captain; there’s nothing to be looking for. This isn’t Little Ala Mhigo where he was—where I was— anyroad, things have changed.”

“You’re telling me you plan on staying with the Resistance long?” Morgana asked. From her tone, it was clear enough that she struggled to believe that such a thing could be true.

“I don’t know,” Sairsel began, but she spoke again.

“Because even I’m considering moving on. You realize what it’s going to change into, now that we’re free, don’t you?” She glanced over at him. “You don’t want to be a soldier.”

“I’m glad for you that a few moons is more than ample time for you to understand me so well that you can decide what I may or may not want for myself,” Sairsel said with a voice that sounded surprisingly like her own, flat and unforgiving. “What do you plan on doing?”

“I left Ala Mhigo a sellsword. I see no reason why I shouldn’t take up mercenary work again.”

Sairsel was silent, but Morgana knew, even without facing him, that he was glancing sidelong at her left arm, at her skin pulled taut by scarring.

“I may not be able to hold a shield anymore, boy, but I can still fight. My sword arm was always my right.”

“I know. I didn’t mean—” Sairsel said, then sighed. “You’re still wearing two swords.”

“How observant. I am,” Morgana said. She kept her eyes ahead.

Her decisive pace was leading them north; they left behind the towering walls of Ala Mhigo and the rare greenery of the Queen’s Gardens to travel alongside Loch Seld’s eastern bank. The dwindling sunlight made the still waters shimmer, and when he squinted, each crystal of light thinned and stretched like blades. Above them, the sky was turning a deep blue-grey that bore coloured clouds, shifting with the sunset.

But Morgana did not seem to notice it.

“We’re going north,” Sairsel said slowly.

“Aye.” When Sairsel added nothing to his observation, Morgana spoke: “Do you understand what that means?”

“Bloodhowe.”

Morgana nodded. “The Tomb of the Errant Sword. I’m assuming you know—”

“It’s a place to honour mercenaries who died on foreign soil,” Sairsel said heavily. “I’ve been. Wilred—it’s where they took Wilred’s sword.”

“It is,” Morgana said. She glanced over at Sairsel, but only for a moment; today, she saw a ghost in his face. Her eyes remained on the horizon as she spoke. “When Gotwin was killed, I took his body to Little Ala Mhigo. But it’s a long way from there to Ul’dah, and I had no time to waste, so I went back to make certain Havisa and Mathias would be out of the city before any more horrors could befall us. Havisa charged a friend as we left to take care of his remains, but I never— For as long as I lived in Little Ala Mhigo, I never found out where he was.”

“I’m sorry.”

“But I did see that friend again, on this side of the Wall. He told me he buried Gotwin himself near the Sepulchre. Twenty years, and I never knew my brother was interred just next door. Some irony, eh?”

Sairsel frowned. “Why didn't he reach out to you? The friend?”

“He didn’t know I was alive, I suppose; we lived in different worlds. Or, if he knew, he didn’t want to show his face in Little Ala Mhigo. I could have reached out to him, but I… didn’t. I was angry. He was no friend to the Resistance, at the time.”

Of all the ways to feel, Sairsel was rediscovering the looming shadow of doubt that he'd only barely succeeded in dismissing; just as he was finding a place for himself in Ala Mhigo, he walked to Bloodhowe with his mother fearing that this was no place for him. He looked upon the spire of the Tomb of the Errant Sword, its silhouette clearer and clearer upon the horizon, as though he were trampling sacred ground.

“Are you—are you certain you want me there for this? I’m…”

“Would I have asked you to come if I didn’t want you there?”

Sairsel shook his head, his voice creeping on the edge of sheepish. “No, I don’t imagine you would.”

“Gotwin loved you like a son,” Morgana said. The words came all at once, landing at Sairsel’s feet with the force of a fire blast; he didn’t know how to handle their shape, as though it didn’t belong in his hands.

Gotwin Arroway was his mother’s brother. He knew that; he knew that, for a few months, he and his uncle had been of the same world. Still, he’d never stopped to imagine what he might have meant to this man whose life had been ripped away long before he could ever remember him. Sairsel had always thought of himself as something from outside what should have been his mother’s life. He didn’t know how to belong within it.

She noticed his silence. “Does that surprise you?”

“I knew you were close,” he said clumsily. “I suppose I never realized he even knew me. He died—”

“Before you’d even seen a summer, aye. But this is something you’ll learn once you have children in your life: it takes only an instant. With you, he had more than instants,” Morgana said, her eyes distant upon the sky. “He looked at you with as much wonder as he’d looked at Mathias when he was born. You were a tiny little thing in his arms.”

Sairsel didn’t know what to say to that. How could he? He rarely knew how to speak to his mother on a normal day, let alone while she was recalling a past that was lodged between her ribs like a blade.

But she didn’t seek any words from him. She sniffed and pushed on towards Bloodhowe, her footsteps heavy and intent, as she lay her hand against the pommel of the scimitar at her right hip.

“After we moved on to Ul’dah, it was Gotwin who kept in touch with your father; they sent letters back and forth like they were courting. He wanted to know everything about you. Tried to tell me all about it, but I never wanted to hear.”

“Why not?” Sairsel dared to ask, aching. Why didn’t you care?

These past few months, he’d been learning to understand her reasons, to make sense of how he could live alongside her after a lifetime of absence—to forgive, for his own sake, if not forget. Some days, he even did forget. She had left him to protect him from herself, to keep him safe with a father who wouldn’t get himself killed as she might; he could accept that.

But it never went away, the nagging hurt. The part of him that resented her.

“Didn’t care to twist the knife. That’s how it felt, without you,” Morgana said stiffly. “Thought I was going to drown in my own blood if I let myself miss you.”

Sairsel swallowed.

“When he died, it was like I lost you for good, too,” she added, looking at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough in the quiet. The sand had crept into his voice, too, now—even if only barely.

They were silent as their feet touched sacred ground; silent as they made their way down into the darkness of the Tomb of the Errant Sword, its halls empty of bodies. All that was given to this earth was steel—and steel was all Morgana had to give.

She knelt in the low light of a candle with Sairsel at her back, and slowly drew the scimitar, holding it in both of her hands. Her breath was audible in the silence, deep with emotion, as she laid down the sword.

“Ancestors, receive the blade of Gotwin Arroway, fallen in Thanalan,” she said, her voice steady but sapped of strength. “He died for honour, and for a brother.”

Only silence answered her, but Morgana bowed her head nonetheless. She pulled a worn strip of embroidered fabric with patterns like delicate feathers from her pocket and tied it to the hilt of the sword with a length of leather cord.

“Remember his beloved, Havisa, fallen in the Black Shroud. She died with strength, as only a mother can.”

It wasn’t until she raised a hand to wipe roughly at her face that Sairsel realized she wept. Silently, he knelt down beside her and reached out—his hand hesitant—to touch her shoulder. Her own hand rose, fingers blindly grasping his.

Perhaps no gods or ancestors would answer her in a voice that she could hear, but Gotwin and Havisa were not forgotten, and Morgana was not alone.

Saskia was even more beautiful than she had been when they were twenty—or perhaps it was merely the simple fact that they stood in reach of each other, alive and whole, that coloured Morgana’s view of her with elation. Her eyes still crinkled when she smiled, dark and bright and glittering like diamond sunlight on the waters of Loch Seld; the thin lines of crow’s feet added shape to that smile. Two decades of occupation had worn her, but never tarnished her glow.

She was brighter, now, if anything: the light hair she’d inherited from her white-star mother sat like a length of braided gold upon her shoulder, woven together like a fish’s tail. Back then, she’d always dyed it, darkened it to brown-black and Ala Mhigan violet and indigo and everything in between—for pleasure as much as it was to hide her fair tones. It fell naturally around her face, softened her.

Somehow, the years seemed to have made her even more gentle, though the steel was unmistakable under her silk; the Empire had turned them all to metal or to stone, and Saskia had survived it. There was even less restraint, now, in the way she reached for Morgana’s hand, than there had been when they were young and foolish.

“You look sad,” Saskia said gently, her voice deeper. More subdued.

Morgana almost laughed, but it would have cut like a blade. The tea Saskia had made her was colder in her hand than it was warm, by now; it had spread through her with the loose ease of alcohol, warmed her as the stone of the promenade cooled under their feet.

“These last few days have been some of the happiest of my life.” She shifted her hand underneath Saskia’s, touching the tips of her fingers to the inside of her wrist. Saskia had always made her softer around the edges—that had been before, but Morgana was realizing that perhaps that weakness had not entirely faded away. “And they’re all the sweeter now for seeing you well.”

“And you.” Saskia smiled and pulled Morgana close, standing on the tips of her toes to press a kiss to her forehead.

They were not the same women they had once been—little more than girls playing at starting their lives. But the last few weeks had taught Morgana one thing: that the past clung back. Once it sank into her, her heart might sink back regardless of whether she wished it. The past lay in Saskia’s hands, in her eyes, in her lips; something in Morgana called to it.

Too much of her life lay unfinished. She closed her eyes at the fleeting touch of Saskia’s mouth to her brow, let go of her hand to touch the tips of her fingers to her cheek.

“There is something I need to ask,” Saskia said, eyes downcast, as she touched Morgana’s arm. The feeling of another’s hands on the fresh scars still almost made her flinch, but she felt like a cliff beside Saskia. Unmoving, steady against the crashing of waves and the beating of wind.

“Ask it.”

Saskia’s voice came as half a whisper, laden with regret. “Do you resent me?”

“I did,” Morgana said without a moment’s hesitation. She knew Saskia spoke of the night their paths had split, and there was no other answer. Her heart had always broken for more than Ala Mhigo alone. “For a time. But I resented you because I missed you, or—or I was afraid for you.”

Saskia nodded, silent, her gaze falling. Morgana never wanted to see her like this; she tipped her chin up with a finger, looked into the near-black of her eyes, framed by pale lashes. “No longer, Saskia,” she said. “We both made our choices for our families. My family died halfway across Eorzea. If I’d lost you with them, I’d— I wouldn’t have survived it.”

All at once, Morgana pulled away, turning to lean over the parapet overlooking the Lochs; she swallowed down the rising tide as she watched the sea of clouds, the red mountains. “What’s done is done.” She sniffed. “No use dwelling and regretting. It’s to the future we need to look, now.”

Saskia was silent for only a few heartbeats, but it seemed a great chasm. She leaned against the parapet, too, shoulder to shoulder with Morgana.

“So long as looking forward does not keep you from seeing what is beside you,” Saskia said. She tilted her head, her attention focused on the lines of Morgana’s face; it made her wonder what it was that she saw. Whatever it was, it pulled at her lips to form a sad sort of smile. A smile for the lost. “I recall a time when you’d wave me off if I so much as uttered a word about the future.”

The memory hit Morgana like a crashing wave, like it belonged to someone else. But it had been her, young and brash and biting into everything around her. ‘Let's not,’ she would say, usually sealing the topic away with a kiss. ‘I would rather enjoy the now.’

“Oh, gods. You’re right,” Morgana said, letting out a puff of a sigh. “I’d forgotten.”

“You’ve changed. It took over.”

Seeing the regret weighing down Saskia’s gaze, Morgana grasped at a new memory, intent on dispelling some of the shade the last twenty years had drawn over them. “I had started changing by the time we left,” she pointed out. “When Mathias was soon to be born. We’d started to make plans.”

Saskia’s expression turned for the bittersweet. “True. A child of our own. You remember?”

“Of course I do. That conversation we had with Gotwin about him siring the babe with you was one of the most haunting of my young life,” Morgana said, a smile tugging at her lips. It soon fell; she looked down at her hands. “And I thought of it constantly before my son was born. I was always thinking of you.”

“You were?” Saskia asked softly.

Morgana nodded. “It never felt right, a child in my belly. I thought it should have been you—for us, together. I… I still look at him, sometimes, my son— I wonder what he might be like if he had been yours.”

“So you do torture yourself,” Saskia said, swaying towards her to bump their shoulders together.

“I am not without faults,” Morgana said with a meager smile. “And perhaps I learned it from him. He’s kind, you know—which, I suppose, is more like you than me. But not to himself. Always looking back over his shoulder.”

“You think he might be different if he had been mine?”

“I’m certain of it.”

“But he’s yours, Morgana,” Saskia said gently. “You have it in you to help your son to look forward and be kinder to himself just as much as I could—but you need to let him help you, too. To see what is beside you.”

Morgana sighed and closed her eyes, tipping her head to the side to rest against Saskia’s. She wanted to tell her that she had missed her gentle heart and her way with words every day of her life, but the words wouldn’t come. They belonged on the tongue of a woman she no longer knew how to be.

“You always found it irksome when you knew I was right about something,” Saskia said of her silence, the smile shining through her voice. Morgana chuckled.

“Nothing irksome in it now. But I am glad you’ve become confident.”

“Doing away with my uncertainties was the only way I found to survive the Garleans. Anything less, and they thought they were right to call you savage.” Saskia disdainfully scrunched up her nose. “It almost feels too good to be true, walking these streets without having to answer to some cock of a bucket-head.”

Morgana snorted. “Those Resistance helmets are much more pleasant to look at, aren’t they?”

“Aye,” Saskia said with a smile. “I was wondering why I wasn’t seeing you in uniform.”

“Well, I’m not on duty right now. And, besides—I’m not sure that I will be again. I suppose we’ll see how the summit goes; I don’t think even the commander herself knows what will become of the Resistance yet.”

Saskia hummed. “What do you want?” she asked. “For yourself. From the future.”

Maddeningly, Morgana thought of Raubahn. She knew, at the very least, that she did not want what he did—and that made her insides twist.

“I don’t know,” she said stiffly. “All this time fighting, all this time hoping, and I never even stopped to think about what might come after. Feels like I ought to pick my life back up where I left it, but it’s been so long that there’s nothing left of the way it used to be.”

A part of her hoped that Saskia might say that she was still here; that they could start again. But Saskia did not say it.

“I don’t quite know, either,” she said.

The other part of Morgana was still caught on the question of what she wanted, clamouring with an answer she didn’t want to swallow: I don’t want him to leave.

There was a trace of blood on Sairsel’s cheek. His every gesture still had the stiff harshness of a body that had seen battle, his voice taut as a bowstring.

“Where in the bloody fuck were you?” he demanded. He bent down, planting a foot down on an ananta’s corpse to pull out an arrow with a squelching sound that did not make him bat an eyelash.

“I was—” Morgana said, raising a vague hand to point to nowhere over her shoulder only to cut herself off. “What happened?”

“Fucking Qalyana happened. Summoned a primal in the middle of the Hall of the Griffin.”

“Twelve,” Morgana breathed, dread filling her veins.

“We had to fight some of our own. They were already tempered,” Sairsel said through gritted teeth. So battle alone hadn’t put him in that state: it was killing someone who should never have been an enemy. He sniffed, glancing over his shoulder. “Ashelia and Arenvald put her down. But it could have been a lot worse. Lyse—Commander Hext, she— she and General Aldynn fought her. Without the Echo.”

Morgana took it like a punch to the gut. Her breath fell short, and her mind raced ahead. Fool. How could he—how could they both have been so reckless? Foolhardiness was to be expected of someone as young as Lyse, even if she had wisdom beyond her years enough to lead their people, but—

She gritted her teeth. Never could she understand him running back to Ul’dah, but letting himself fall to a primal to assuage his guilty conscience for leaving his home behind, she couldn’t even begin to forgive.

“Are they—” she asked, her voice scraping.

“Sound of mind and body,” Sairsel said, his gaze furtive. The muscles in his jaw tensed. “The Butcher fought, too. Lyse took her out of her cage. She saved their lives—all our lives.”

Morgana barely heard his words; her eyes kept pulling her towards the palace, like a tether stretched as far as it might go. She did not want to find out what might happen if she let it snap. “They’re all still inside?”

Sairsel’s shoulders were low. They drew in towards his heart. “Aye.”

At first, there was no question in Morgana’s mind, no doubt: she was who she had been before the Wall, decisive as the path of an arrow. She patted Sairsel’s arm in passing, more comradely than maternal, and got as far as three steps away from him before she heard him sniff again. Her feet stilled.

He was all that mattered beside her; all that lay ahead.

Damn her memories. Damn the past she had dragged into the present as though it might be a part of her future. She turned, walked back towards her son, and did what no one had ever done for her when the sword she sold had seemed to bear the weight of the world in her hand.

“Sairsel,” she said, taking him by the shoulders—shoulders wider and stronger than they had been back in Little Ala Mhigo. “Are you hurt?”

He frowned, shook his head. His gaze still fell towards the bodies, so Morgana gently took the bow from his hands and slung it over her shoulder. “It was a mercy and a kindness. They weren’t our own anymore, and anyone wearing that uniform would rather be dead than turning on their comrades.”

“I know,” Sairsel said stiffly. “I only—”

“Telling yourself doesn’t make it feel true, and neither does someone telling you the same,” she finished for him. Her gaze softened. “I know. But you have to fight it. You have the strength.”

For the first time, his eyes unwaveringly met hers—with cynicism to veil his doubt. “You really believe that?” he asked. Even his sarcasm sounded weary.

“I do,” Morgana said. It astonished her to think that, for once, her uncompromising nature served rather than harmed; she knew it had done Sairsel more ill than good over the last few months to be met with a brick wall at every turn. “Do you want to know why I think it?”

“Because I’m your son and I can’t be weak?” he suggested with a feeble, bitter half-smile. “Because I’m Gotwin’s nephew?”

Morgana looked over the promenade, hoping it would draw Sairsel’s own gaze. The kind thing might have been to preserve him, to make it so he didn’t have to look again at what had come to pass, but Morgana was not the kind one. The only kindness he needed was his own.

“You didn’t run,” she said, insistent. “You fought without the Echo, too, didn't you?”

“It’s easy to fight when you don’t have to walk past the strong ones,” Sairsel said. He motioned to his bow with his chin, but didn’t ask for it back. Not for now.

Morgana, for the most part, chose to ignore the comment. “You’re stupid, but you’re not weak. Stupid is fixable.”

Of all the ways to react, Sairsel laughed—a mirthless laugh that broke Morgana’s heart, but a laugh nonetheless. He was strong. He would survive this as he had survived everything else.

“Thank you, Mother, really. ‘Stupid’ is the only praise I ever needed from you.”

“It is one thing to be brave, Sairsel,” Morgana said, matching his tone. “It is another when that bravery is suicidal. The important part is knowing which is which.”

Sairsel’s frown narrowed his eyes as he considered her words. He opened his mouth, his lips forming no words, closed it, then spoke at last: “I couldn’t— I had to fight. Having the Echo doesn’t make Ashelia invincible.”

“I could have told you that the second we met,” Morgana said smartly, and immediately regretted it as Sairsel’s expression closed, if only for a moment. He rolled his eyes and went on.

“She’s better, but she’s not well. So I couldn’t. Not after… not after the tempered. It had to mean something.”

To that, Morgana could find no words—no words, at least, that could preserve what little remained of Sairsel’s spirits. She had been younger than he was when she first came to realize that death was meaningless, and then she had suffered for it as the years passed. There had been no meaning in Gotwin’s throat being cut open by rich men’s spite, in Havisa meeting her end at a hateful Wood-Wailer’s spear; in young men and women lost at Baelsar’s Wall as though their blood and pain were currency for one of their own; in brave Resistance fighters living to rip their home back from the Empire’s claws only to die a primal’s puppets.

Morgana had stopped looking for sense in death that was not chosen, but Sairsel was young and beholden to a gentler heart than he would admit to having.

It had to mean something.

A young man searching for meaning somewhere under the weight of battle as though redemption or reparation lay within. It was too familiar by half.

Later, she walked that path again—alone and under a velvet blue sky slowly coming alive with blinking stars. She climbed the palace steps, passed through silent halls that seemed to both forget and remember every second of the horrors they had seen. Today, weeks ago; through twenty years of occupation and a mad king’s reign of blood and all the ages of a nation. Bricks chipped by blades and bullets and scrubbed clean of blood, scorched black, drinking the echoes of pain. She walked floors that had seen her twisting and screaming herself raw as fire ate at her skin.

The Hall of the Griffin still crackled with aether, but traces of the primal and the fighting were gone. Morgana paid it all little mind; the throne room had seen far worse days in its history, and she hardly had any reason to linger. Twenty years ago, she would have never even dreamed of standing there—much less passing through as though it was a thoroughfare leading to a tavern.

She climbed more stairs, and emerged once more into the night. The sky stretched high and far over the Royal Menagerie. The sound of her own footsteps grated her own senses, too loud in the quiet stillness.

And her voice, too, but she couldn’t help speaking as she fell in at Raubahn’s side, keeping to his left. She couldn’t leave it at silence.

“You’re a fool,” she said.

Everything about Raubahn’s demeanour came softer in a way Morgana hardly recognized; not because it was not in his nature, but simply for the fact that he never seemed to have the time for it. In quick, stolen glances his way—it was easier to gaze upon the sky—Morgana could hardly tell what she saw in the lines of his face, in that unassuming smile that drew up his lips. Peace? Resignation? Weariness?

She had only ever learned to read a man’s face, his eyes above all, in battle. This was so far from it that she barely knew how to stand.

“I suppose I am,” he said humbly, “though you could stand to be more precise.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten about fighting a primal—what, three hours ago?”

“No.”

“Or done something even madder since then.”

“Not yet.”

“That you know of,” Morgana said.

Raubahn smiled again. This time, Morgana thought it was most definitely weary; too soft around the edges to merely be peace. “That I know of,” he agreed. Stars filled the spaces of his silence. “Your son fought as well.”

“I know. Told him it was stupid, too.”

“He seems a good lad.”

Morgana nodded, her expression giving no sign of the pride that swelled within her breast. She did not need to be told of Sairsel’s qualities, not after all the work of trying to know him when he was almost as stiffly guarded as she was, and not by any man—but Raubahn’s opinion mattered to her far more than she might wish. He was half a legend, with a son of his own who was courageous and fierce and caring, and he had seen her brought low by the mere thought of who Sairsel might become when he had been but a babe.

Those words meant more to her than many of the things he had said to her.

For a heartbeat, she almost told him as much.

“I know,” she said instead.

Silence found them once more, but Raubahn was not idly watching the stars as Morgana did to divert her own focus. His smile courted the bittersweet. “Have you naught else to say to me?”

“Was there something you wished to hear from me, General?” Morgana said. She felt as though she were spitting poison, but only drop by drop.

Slowly, Raubahn breathed out through his nose. “No. I suppose not.”

He turned his gaze back towards the sky; only then did Morgana chance a glance at him. She thought her words might have soured him, but it seemed she was the only one in reach of her own poison. Was he so secure in his decision that her disapproval left him utterly unbothered? The thought pushed anger through her ribs. Were she in his place, leaving Ala Mhigo and returning to the land that had been little more than a prison to her might have torn her apart.

And yet—nostalgia was the only thing she could see on his face.

“It almost seems strange, a peaceful farewell, for you and I,” he said after a moment.

Morgana chuckled mirthlessly. “I could think of a threat or two, if you like.” She swallowed the emotion of the memory, the horror and the pain still raw in her throat after twenty years, and the new bitterness. Her voice came with such calm it almost seemed to belong in another body. “You’re leaving on the morrow, I imagine?”

“Aye,” Raubahn said gently. “Ala Mhigo no longer needs me.”

“That’s a bold fucking claim,” Morgana scoffed.

A part of her wanted to move, to stand in front of him so that he could no longer look at the sky as though it were the last of something, to shake his shoulders and remind him of who he was. After a reign of blood and twenty years of occupation, Ala Mhigo needed the good men and the legends more than ever; what fool could not realize that he was both?

“I would not begin our alliance with a free nation by interfering in its affairs.”

Morgana turned her gaze towards him, frowning. “‘Our’ alliance?” she asked, bewildered. “Ul’dah’s?”

“You know what I meant.”

“No. I don’t.”

“Ala Mhigo is in good hands.”

“And yours are—what? Bound?” Morgana asked. She closed her mouth, pushed out a sharp sigh through her nose. “Don’t answer that.”

She would not tell him that Ala Mhigo needed him, if he could not see it for himself. It was the part of her that was afraid it might sound too much like I need you that kept her quiet, that moved her as far away from the words as she could be.

“What of the Ala Mhigan Brigade?”

Better curiosity, even if it made her seem interested in the Flames’ affairs, than clinging to the past.

“Disbanded,” Raubahn said, as relieved as he was saddened. “Too many have chosen to stay, and I am glad for it. Those who would return will become a special unit dedicated to bringing aid and protection to refugees throughout Thanalan as much as the rest of Ul’dah.” He hesitated for a moment, then said: “There is yet a place for you within those ranks, if…”

“Do not insult me, Raubahn,” Morgana said, sharper than he deserved. “The only way I’m ever leaving Gyr Abania again is in chains.”

Infuriatingly, Raubahn almost smiled; she could hear it return it to his voice, gentle with some strange, fond resignation. “Some things never change, do they.”

It was not a question, and Morgana had no mind to give an answer. He turned, tried to reach out for her, but she ambled away before he could touch her. She kept on dictating the terms: she faced him, kept her distance, extended her right hand—her thumb turned out, palm upwards. At the very least, their comradeship deserved it.

“It was an honour to fight at your side,” she said honestly, drowning out every other part of her that was not a warrior. “On the bloodsands and on this ground.”

Raubahn’s hand was heavy in hers. For a moment, he seemed to want for words. “I won’t forget it,” he said. “And I am glad for the peaceful farewell. May you find the freedom you deserve, Morgana.”

Morgana nodded stiffly. “Safe journeys.”

She left before anything else could be said; before she could feel the weight of what was not. As she trotted down the stairs, she nearly barrelled into Ashelia Riot.

Of all the people.

“Morgana,” said Ashelia. It seemed like more than a greeting, but Morgana pretended it didn’t.

“Riot,” she answered curtly, and kept her eyes forward—towards home.

#from the heart #c:morgana #c:sairsel #f:xiv

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barcarole · 6 years

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what are your favorite movies? I love your blog

Zerkalo, Stalker, Andrei Rublev, Nostalgia, Solaris, Sansho the Bailiff, Osaka Elegy, The Story of the Last Chrysanthemums, When A Woman Ascends The Stairs, Le Notti di Cabiria, Sans Soleil, The Red Shoes, The Third Man, 8½, Late Spring, Floating Weeds, High And Low, The Bad Sleep Well, Le Plaisir, Autumn Sonata, Winter Light, The Virgin Spring, Cries and Whispers, Hour of the Wolf, Au Hasard Balthazar, Les cousins, Le feu follet, Vivre sa vie, Yi yi, A Time To Live/A Time to Die, The Last Year at Marienbad, Les statues meurent aussi, The Fallen Idol, L'Atalante, Woman in the Dunes, Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans, The Chronicle of Anna Magdalena Bach, All About Eve, Dark Victory, Greed, Napoléon vu par Abel Gance, The Face of Another, Babette’s Feast, Journal d'un curé de campagne, Ordet, Vampyr, Gertrud, Les Demoiselles de Rochefort, Werckmeister Harmonies, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, Broken Blossoms, Diary of a Lost Girl, The Heiress, Ascenceur pour L'Echafaud, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, The Promised Country, La Rayon Vert, Opening Night, Faces, Love Streams, Harakiri, Léon Morin, prêtre, Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne, Orphée, Le testament d'Orphée, La Belle Noiseuse, Dr. Mabuse, der spieler, The Human Condition (I, II, III), 24 Frames, Letter from an Unknown Woman, Till We Meet Again (Borzage), Rebecca, La Notte, Jules et Jim, Tie Xi Qu: West of the Tracks, Ikiru, Akahige, Ivan Grozny (I, II), Un condamné a mort s'est échappé, The Trial, F for Fake, Trois couleurs: Bleu, Trois couleurs: Rouge, The Wind, Bob Le Flambeur, La peau douce, L'Histoire d'Adele H., La Grande Illusion, La maman et la putain, I Know Where I’m Going!, Faust (Murnau), Medea, Mamma Roma, The House is Black, The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant, Sonatine, The Ballad of Narayama, Roma città aperta, Voyage to Italy, The Roaring Twenties, Baby Face, Design for Living, Vivre sa Vie, Brief Encounter, The Circus, City Lights, The Night of the Hunter, Monsieur Verdoux, Terje Vigen, The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, From Morn to Midnight, The Lady Vanishes, Kuroneko, Play Time, Le Quai des Brumes, Apur Sansar, The Music Room, In the Mood for Love, Taste of Cherry, Through the Olive Trees, Viridiana, Tale of Tales, To Be Or Not To Be, Sherlock Jr., Our Hospitality, The General, The Apartment, Pandora’s Box, Veronika Voss, Morocco, L'Age d'Or, The Passion of Joan of Arc, Laura, Where The Sidewalk Ends, Notorious, The 39 Steps, The Big Sleep, In A Lonely Place, Easy Living, The Thin Man, The Shop Around The Corner, Knight Without Armour, As I Was Moving Ahead Occasionally I Saw Brief Glimpses of Beauty, Steamboat Bill Jr., Floating Clouds, Umberto D., Throne of Blood, Yojimbo, The Big Heat, Chronicle of a Summer, A Streetcar Named Desire, The Lost Weekend, La Ronde, Der amerikanische Freund, The Smiling Lieutenant, The Uninvited, Wings (Shepitko), The Ascent, Come and See, Liebelei, Ran, Le Fantôme de la liberté, The Color of Pomegranates, Les Vampires, Dr. Strangelove, Certified Copy, The Nibelung: Siegfried, Shadows of our Forgotten Ancestors, Devi, The Phantom Carriage, Russian Ark, and many, many others.

#cinema #ask #personal

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pocketseizure · 6 years

Text

The Legend of the Princess, Chapter 22

A Swiftly Encroaching Darkness

In which Zelda almost gets what she wants as her kingdom falls apart. NSFW

(Chapter 22 on AO3) (Story Tag on Tumblr) (Cover Illustration)

* * * * *

It’s amazing, really, how rapidly order can descend into chaos. One moment everything is fine, but the next moment nothing is. In retrospect we desperately wish we could have foreseen the catalyst that triggered the calamity, but at the time our eyes were turned elsewhere.

----------

“But I saw everything,” Zelda objected. “That monster, whatever it was, destroyed Hyrule. There was a city, and it burned. The entire land burned.”

“That ‘monster’ was a god, and it didn’t destroy Hyrule,” Ganondorf replied in voice that was so devoid of emotion that it disturbed Zelda more than his earlier anger. “Hylia did that.”

“But why would she – ”

“To keep it out of the hands of her enemies.”

Zelda opened her mouth, thought better of what she was about to say, and closed it. This was something to think about. She was still overwhelmed by what she had just witnessed, but a stray thought tugged at a corner of her mind.

“When the monster, or god, or whatever is was… When it cursed that girl, it didn’t curse her specifically, did it? It cursed her descendants. That’s what it said, right?”

Ganondorf narrowed his eyes. “What of it?”

“So listen, maybe all we have to do to break the curse is not have children.”

Zelda watched as the light of understanding filled Ganondorf’s eyes.

“That’s… That’s why I came here,” he said.

“That’s why you… What?”

“That’s why I came to Hyrule, to avoid having children.”

Zelda was struck by an icy stab of jealousy. Who would Ganondorf have children with? Now that she thought about it, it would make sense for him to be engaged already. Or, at the very least, being surrounded by women as he was…

“I thought you came to attend my coronation,” she said, unable to excise the bitterness from her voice.

“I had to fight Nabooru to get her to allow me to attend in her place.”

Something about this didn’t sit right with Zelda. “But aren’t you the king of the Gerudo?” she asked. “Why wouldn’t it be you who attended?”

“I’m the only highborn male in a city full of women. I have one job as king, and it’s not to rule the country.”

Zelda suddenly understood what he meant, and Ganondorf laughed as her eyes widened.

“I made it clear that I had no interest in that sort of thing, but Nabooru managed to convince the council of state that I might find inspiration if I spent time in Hyrule.”

“And did you?” Zelda asked. She smiled before she kissed him.

----------

There are many things about the current state of affairs in Hyrule that Zelda suspects but does not know. How could she?

How could she know why all the Darknuts have left the castle? How could she know why Barghest has remained? Zelda is attentive to detail, but she is bothered by these questions no more than a baker is bothered by the comings and goings of the assistants to the miller who grinds his flour. In an earlier era, perhaps a monarch would have been able to track the movements of every member of her staff, but Hyrule has thrived and flourished in the two hundred years since the last war, and the size of the bureaucracy that occupies the castle has grown along with the population, as has the number of people needed to keep the machine of state running efficiently. Zelda’s domain is the abstract realm of numbers and letters, not the care and feeding of the horses in the royal stables.

How could she know, then, that rebellion has fermented among the Darknuts, and that Barghest’s motives for remaining in the service of the Hylian king have little to do with loyalty?

Link knows, and he might even have told her if she’d thought to ask him, but she didn’t. Why would she? Zelda has always been aware that he hides things from her, but it’s only recently occurred to her that what he hasn’t said is far more important than what he has. As she sat on the floor of her father’s study surrounded by her late mother’s letters, Zelda considered finding Link to confront him, but it took her no longer than the space of a sigh to decide that their conversation could wait. After all, she has other fires to attend to at the moment.

----------

“This doesn’t have to be so complicated,” Zelda murmured into Ganondorf’s ear. “We can be civilized and have this conversation like civilized people.”

“Civilization didn’t make your ancestors any less evil,” he responded, turning his head to kiss her.

“‘Evil’ is a strong word,” she said, twisting her face away from him.

“So is ‘monster.’” He put a hand on the back of her neck and pulled her to him. She allowed his tongue to find hers. He took his time.

She eventually pushed him away, her hands on his chest. “I should go,” she said, intending to do no such thing.

He placed his hands over hers. “Don’t go,” he said, kissing the corner of her mouth. “We haven’t finished talking yet.”

“Can you convince me to stay?” she countered, allowing the upturn of her question to linger on the fullness of his bottom lip.

“Just try to get away,” he said. She felt every movement of his teeth on her skin.

“Is that a challenge?” She smiled and turned to leave. He caught her by the arms and reeled her in so that her back was pinned against the front of his body. He had her trapped, at least in play.

“Would you like to be challenged?” he asked, trailing the fingers of his hand down her throat and sliding his thumb under the strap of her gown.

----------

In less than two days Zelda will become a queen. This has real political significance concerning the balance of power in the kingdom, but the ceremonies themselves symbolize the stability of continuity and reflect the contentment of a people who have never been attacked, who have never readied themselves for war, who have never known true hardship for hundreds of years. Peace has resulted in wealth, and wealth demands comfort. Trade has flourished, as has culture. Hyrule is a prosperous kingdom, and its people have much to celebrate.

As dignitaries from across the land congregate, festivities continue within the great hall of the castle. Likewise, raucous merrymaking enlivens the city, until suddenly it doesn’t.

All it takes is a single spark to light a fire, but that spark will not catch if it doesn’t find kindling to burn.

The centuries since the last war have been good to the victors, but the prejudice against those who opposed the monarchy has been slow to fade. The Zora have enjoyed the favor of Hyrule, as have the Rito and the Gorons. The Darknuts, once proud knights who served both the Hylians and the Gerudo, have not been so lucky – the Sheikah saw to that. Entire generations were lost on both sides the last time Hyrule Castle came under siege, and neither the monarchy’s allies nor those who fought alongside the vanquished Gerudo were forgiven. Cubs were lifted from the cold hands of their parents and placed into the homes of Hylians, who took their language and names and shaped them into model subjects of the queen who had denied the same opportunity to their families. Children grew as decades passed, and perhaps injustices would have eventually been forgotten had not memory persisted in the shadowed hills and forests of Ordon, where the light of the divine queens could not reach.

The Darknuts had once despised the Moblins. They thought, as did most of Hyrule, that they were no more than savage beasts, barely capable of language and only good for the most menial of tasks. The Darknuts were strong, but they were architects while the Moblins hauled stone. The Darknuts were fierce, but they were strategists while the Moblins fell on the front lines. The Darknuts had a way with animals, but they bred prize horses while the Moblins shoveled shit. When the Gerudo turned their backs on Hyrule and the Darknuts had nowhere else to go, however, the Moblins gave them shelter in the ruins hidden in the forgotten corners of Hyrule. The Moblins defended their territory with the ferocity of a people who know what it means to be hunted, but the Darknuts quickly learned that they were by no means uncivilized.

The Gerudo keep a close watch over these ruins, and they maintain good relations with the communities that live there. Water springs from deep within the bedrock upon which crumbling towers and dusty underground palaces have been built, presenting opportunities for Gerudo engineers and Darknut masons alike. Trade flourishes, with the fruits of the sandy soil exchanged for cool water, and in recent years strange relics have begun to surface and circulate. Old grudges fade slowly, however, and the Gerudo know better than to interrupt the slumber of the ancient deities that may still dwell within the sites once sacred to the Hylians. Neither the Gerudo nor the Darknuts venture farther than their Moblin guides will lead them.

This balance was maintained until, almost two hundred years after the Darknuts were driven from Hyrule, a Gerudo prince once again ascended to the throne. The prince asked questions, and he demanded answers. Unlike those who came before him, he was not afraid of the power of the ancients, and he devoured the messages of the glyphs carved into the timeless walls with a ferocious hunger that could not be sated.

----------

Ganondorf slowly moved his hand until it was directly over the line of fabric dividing Zelda’s skin from her dress. She could feel the weight of his palm on her breast, whose peak stiffened into a hard point from the pleasant friction. Ganondorf must have noticed, for he shifted his palm to cup her breast and circled her sensitive nipple with his thumb. Zelda sighed softly, and he kissed her neck with an equal softness.

“Let me touch you,” he whispered into her ear, and Zelda nodded.

Ganondorf slipped his hand under the fabric, and then the heat of his palm was directly on her skin. He met the curve of her breast with the firmness of his fingers, trapping her nipple as he teased it with his thumb. He did not paw at her as other men had done, but neither was he gentle.

He kissed her at the base of her ear and then moved his arm around her as his hand glided down to the skirt of her gown. He touched her bare leg, murmuring in appreciation as he stroked the smooth skin of her thigh, and then he raised his hand so that the thin fabric of her dress cascaded like a waterfall from the ropy muscle of his forearm. The tips of his fingers burned against her stomach as he caressed her bare skin. Zelda knew exactly what he was doing, and she allowed it to happen. She whispered his name into his mouth and reached down to position his hand between her legs.

He exhaled as his fingers slid over the silk of her panties, and he cupped her sex delicately, as if it were a precious thing. When he began petting her, he did so gently, moving his fingers back and forth slowly across her. The strong pressure of his middle finger created a delicious tension, especially as it lingered at the top of her slit.

Ganondorf shifted his position, and touch of his hardness against her back made her feel as if she were melting. She wanted more, and so she turned to face him, pressing herself against him as she pinned his waist between her legs. His eyes were liquid gold as he gazed at her in wonder, and she kissed him.

She tasted sweetness, nothing but sweetness, a surfeit of the sweetest things – the taste of his lips and the touch of his hands and the fragrance of his hair. When Zelda had dallied with men before, there would always be a moment when her curiosity chilled and curdled into discomfort, but her desire for Ganondorf only grew warmer. There was only his cool breath, the spiciness of his tongue, and the pressure of his fingers on her neck, calloused and unyielding, forcing her to lift her face and open her mouth to his.

As they kissed Zelda remembered how he had led her in a dance through the air above the ruined castle in the Twilight Realm. She felt the same giddy rush of flying, but now she had complete control. She guided Ganondorf's hands where she needed them to be, flush against her skin. He grew even harder at her waist, the thickness of his length hot on the skin of her belly. When she moved to adjust her position he groaned low in his throat, and she rocked against him, taking her pleasure as she teased him. She knew what his hands were capable of, and she wanted to force him to use them. She wanted to force him to lose control.

----------

The Moblins waiting outside the city walls have been watching for a sign, and the smoke rising above the ramparts is as good a sign as any. It’s difficult to say who throws the first stone, who fires the first shot, who bellows the first war cry. Various people will later proudly claim or vehemently deny the charge, but in the end it doesn’t matter. Buildings burn, fighting fills the streets, and Darknuts lead battalions of Moblins as they pour through the city gates to join their brothers and sisters. The soldiers withdraw from the chaos, determined to defend the castle at all costs. Their commanders believe that Hyrule Castle is the primary target of the invaders, whose forces move through the city on their way to the center. This assumption proves to be correct.

Ganondorf was not being entirely honest when he suggested to Zelda that his primary purpose is to breed Gerudo children. He had been raised to be a king, and he occupies a political position equal to that of the council of elders who govern the Gerudo city in the desert. He has never seen himself as a leader, however; his interests are far more specific.

When his mother was poisoned by the Hylian queen he realized that he would not be able to serve his people through statecraft. He knew his martial prowess would never be equal to that of the women who spend their lives training to serve at the palace, so instead he developed his talent in magic. The pursuit of knowledge became its own reward; but, for every question he answered, dozens more sprang up in its place. Eventually he arrived at the mystery that lay at the core of these questions – Where did magic come from? All evidence pointed him in the direction of Hyrule, where, ironically, magic had all but disappeared. Why?

Ganondorf ventured deep into the abandoned temples and sprawling underground mazes where the Darknuts and Moblins made their home. Unlike the other Gerudo, he was eager to learn their language, and with only a minimum of instruction he had taught himself to read the spiraling mosaics that served as their writing. The Moblins had drawn this system from the patterns of glyphs covering the walls of the ruins they occupied, and with their help Ganondorf began to read these walls, lines running along narrow corridors and across vast chambers, which flared to life with magic as he chanted, one wording echoing like a refrain – Triforce. No matter how much he learned, he still kept asking questions. Why? Why? Why?

Ganondorf was courteous and generous to the people who watched his journeys and assisted in his excavations, but he felt no sense of obligation to them. Nevertheless, they were infected by the relentless flame of his curiosity. “Why” is a powerful question, and the answers it dredges up can be dangerous. At first Ganondorf was nothing more than a child, and then he was a strange and sullen teenager, and when he became a king he ceased to visit at all, bound as he was to his people. Nevertheless his legend spread among the Darknuts, who have never forgotten their history, and even the Moblins have started to whisper the name of a fallen god who may one day rise again – Ganon.

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The doors to Ganondorf’s chambers burst open, sending a pile of books flying. The vibrations upset a vase perched on one of the bookshelves set along the wall, and it shattered on the floor, spilling flowers and water in a fan across the tiles.

“Impa!” Zelda exclaimed, digging her nails into Ganondorf’s shoulders as his muscles tensed.

Impa stood in the doorway as a dozen Sheikah filed past her into the room. “Seize this man,” she ordered, fixing Ganondorf in an icy stare.

Zelda rose to her feet and adjusted her dress, blocking Ganondorf with her body. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “I’ve got this situation under control.”

“I have no doubt you do,” Impa responded, “but the orders to arrest him came directly from the king.”

“Then we will talk to the king directly,” Zelda insisted. “The Gerudo ambassador has done nothing to deserve this treatment. And can’t this wait until morning? Surely my father knows better than to send Sheikah barging into the rooms of one of our guests in the middle of the night. I will not allow you to take this man anywhere without my permission.”

“If I may,” Ganondorf spoke up from behind her.

“What?” Zelda muttered, not allowing her eyes to leave Impa’s face.

Ganondorf laid a hand on her waist, and there was a metallic hiss as the Sheikah drew their weapons in unison.

“Stand down.” Zelda raised her voice in the cool assurance of command, and Impa shrugged in acquiescence. The assassins stepped back, but they did not sheath their blades.

Ganondorf gently positioned Zelda to the side as he stood. He stretched his arms and fastened the clasps at his collar. “I’ve been meaning to see the castle dungeon,” he said casually. “I knew this would happen sooner or later, and I’m honored to have been granted such a fine escort. By all means, take me away. I’m sure this will be resolved soon, one way or another.”

Zelda glared at him, but he didn’t meet her eyes. The silence was so thick that Zelda could hear her heart beating in her ears.

Impa weighed his words for a moment before arriving at a decision. “Blindfold him,” she said, snapping her fingers at the woman positioned at her right hand. “And make sure his wrists are bound in the back. Keep a knife at his neck, we don’t want to take any chances with this one.”

As her orders were carried out, she walked to Ganondorf, putting herself between him and Zelda. “I wouldn’t try anything funny if I were you,” she said. “I’m sure you know what will happen if one of those blades so much grazes your skin.”

“I’m familiar with your poisons,” Ganondorf sneered. “Intimately.”

Impa narrowed her eyes. “Gag him too.”

Ganondorf allowed himself to be bound and led out of the room tightly ringed by a phalanx of Sheikah. Impa remained behind with Zelda, who watched the proceedings with a blank stare.

“Well, that was fun,” she said after the doors whispered shut. “Do you want to explain what’s going on?”

Impa took Zelda’s hands before pulling her into a fierce hug. She released her but kept her fingers twined through Zelda’s. “Heart of my heart,” she said, “I understand what you were trying to do, but I can’t even begin to fathom how you could bring yourself to touch that man. I thought it would be better not to tell you, but he’s single-handedly bringing about the downfall of this kingdom. He cursed Jabun and the Deku Tree, which are dying as we speak. If they die, the Zora and the Kokiri will die with them, and he doesn’t care. He provoked the dragon on Death Mountain into attacking Darunia’s son, and the boy is as good as dead. Still he sits in this castle and smiles like a thief. But don’t let him fool you. If only you knew what he’s done…”

“Impa,” Zelda said softly as she squeezed her hand. “I knew.”

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Daphnes is a good man, kind and just. He is a good king as well, and he has tirelessly devoted himself to the welfare of his people. He knew about his wife’s affair, and he accepted it. He performed his duty to her as best he could, as he continues to do his duty to her daughter – their daughter. He loved the queen, but it was a distant admiration, and he gives all the affection he could not express to her to Zelda. He adores his daughter, and he has faith that she will become a capable ruler who brings glory to Hyrule, but darkness enfolds his heart like a shroud.

One night the queen, who had never so much as touched his face with her long and graceful fingers, came to him in the moonlight. She begged for a child, weeping all the while. After so many years of following along behind her like a dog he could not do as she asked; there was no spark of intimacy between them, and it was impossible.

And so she drugged him and took what she wanted.

He was unaware of this until her pregnancy was announced. He jumped to the natural conclusion a man might come to in this situation, but when Zelda was born he could not deny that she was his own. He hated his wife, yet he still loved her in his sad and patient way, even then. He grew attached to the child as he had never allowed himself to grow close to anyone else the castle, and so he was the first person to understand that the girl was different, and powerful.

He demanded an explanation, and the queen obliged, finally. If Ganon had returned to the world, she told him, then there must be a Zelda, and she must be a trueborn daughter of the royal line. She told him about the Triforce, and about the terrible enemies that would seek to claim it. Armies could be amassed, but they would all be consumed by flames; the only defense the kingdom had was the princess and her chosen knight. Hyrule had been cursed by a primordial demon, and only Hylia’s heir was its equal. If Zelda couldn’t seal this evil, then no one could.

Daphnes was the second son of a minor aristocrat who governed a small stretch of coastline in Faron province, and he loved nothing more than the sun on his face and the wind in his hair. He knew nothing about gods and demons and curses, but he would do anything to protect his daughter.

“Kill the Gerudo prince,” he told the queen, and instead of objecting she had grown thoughtful. Later she came to him in the night, and for the first time he embraced her as her husband. The next day she left for the desert, and a week later she was dead.

Daphnes was not a vain or a foolish man, but he knew the queen had selected him as her consort because of the cast of his face. He had the outward seeming of a king, and suddenly he was forced to become one. To his surprise, he was good at it, and he allowed the work to consume him and shape his character. If there were gods and monsters in Hyrule, he had no problem with them as long as they paid taxes and settled their disputes in court. Despite the tragedy lingering over the untimely death of the queen, it seemed as if his reign was blessed with peace and prosperity.

When his Sheikah advisors reported to him that the Darknuts had started meeting in secret under the cover of darkness, he thought nothing of it. Better to allow them to dream of rebellion than to imprison anyone without cause. When the urban gentry complained that Moblins had begun to congregate in growing settlements outside the city walls, he permitted it. Castle Town was growing, after all, and the Moblins were hard workers who didn’t demand high wages. In fairy tales it is said that Hylian ears are long so that they can catch the whispers of the gods, but Daphnes had no use for old legends or divine revelations.

All of that changed when Ganondorf came to Hyrule Castle.

Other people may wonder, in retrospect, what moment led to the calamity that resulted in the end of an era, but Daphnes knows, and he hates himself for knowing.

( Link to Chapter 23: A Daring Rescue )

#Princess Zelda #Ganondorf #Zelgan #The Legend of the Princess #Zelda fic #my fic

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yayabones · 7 years

Text

WOW Festival Chester

in May this year I was asked to give a WOW (women of the world) talk in my hometown of Chester. I was honored to be asked. My talk was titled:

Whychcraft: Ayesha Tan-Jones talks about the importance of reconnection back to nature, our spirit and lost wisdom through art, music and magic.

Below is an extract of my talk:

...my mother is from Malaysia, her father was the village baker. In the 1950s, Kuala Lumpar was still a jungle, nowa days it is a concrete metropolis. Not only did my gung gung bake a mean birthday cake, but he was also a keen herbalist, with many people of the village coming to him and my grandma for home remedies. My mother recalls a memory of a women with a maggot infestation on her leg. My grandmother burnt a dark sticky herb over the abscess, engulfing the infestation with smoke, drawing out larvae from the inflicted area. Like an evangelical priest exorcising a demon from the soul, the herb and its master is a powerful healer. Apparently my grandfather kept a huge Tome, a book containing all the herbal wisdom he collected over the years, but this got lost after he passed, and my family immigrated to Liverpool. Knowing that my ancestors held such wisdom, ignites my desires to re-learn these healing powers and to re-write the lost tome.

...While on my 4 week residency [ at Yorkshire Sculpture Park ] , I was blessed with the opportunity to break down the concrete walls of the city where i reside, to commune with the trees and the plants, and be open to the calm sacred energy of nature. In between working in the art studio, I spent much of my time at the sculpture park foraging. It struck me how many plants i do not know the name of, let alone their medicinal qualities. A field is not just a patch of grass, it is a cornucopia brimming with hidden healing. It is nature’s pharmacy, yet many of us have forgotten that knowledge.

In the witch craze of the 1600s, thousands of women and also men were tortured, burnt and hung for suspicion of witchcraft. These people were the village healers, the sages, with wealths of knowledge of native herbs and plants, how to brew them to release the power and ways of divining the future. These natural healers were demonised through propaganda, because these people were of no use to the new capitalist machine that was quickly overtaking the whole of Europe and the new world. How could capitalism thrive when a community is able to self prescribe, self heal and predict the future? Capitalism demands workers to be cogs in the machine. Anybody who strayed from their ideologies, whether they be the elderly with great knowledge of plants, or the young and beautiful ones who delight in the magic of the earth, they were branded as a threat to the system. Villagers were playing a game of blame, with animals falling sick being blamed on that old women who side-eyed them last week, or a bad harvest blamed on the young woman whose freedom and youth was unreligious.

Thousands of people were murdered during the witchcraze, people turning against their own. The ones who survived were left mentally damaged and many more took their own lives. The repression and almost destruction of this natural wisdom has left us modern witches with the task of re-learning and re-writing the witches herstory/theirstory.

My own way of exploring the world comes through art and music. Creating visual poetry and audio alchemy is the way I do my research. The project I embarked on at Yorkshire sculpture Park was entitled Whychcraft? It is my way of questioning, why? Why do we need magic, why do we need craft and art, why must we constantly remind our selves to keep asking questions?

We should question the way modern society uses pharmaceutical drugs to numb minor illnesses, rather than the bounty that mother earth provides us. We should question the knowledge we are fed by society, and conduct our own research order to seek out the answers we yearn for. We need to relearn the craft, using our hands to create and to mend. My film project, Whychcraft? is a love letter to mother earth, a sorry note from a child of the future, for the damage that their ancestors inflicted.

As a digital native, I have grown up in a generation whose lives are part lived through the internet. Google is only 3 years younger than me, so, we essentially grew up together. My interest in spirituality has always been present, but with the internet, I was able to conduct my own studies into mysticism, and carve my own beliefs using the infinite information at my finger tips. i have always believed in the higher powers, and since a child I have known that God and the spirit are everywhere, that myself and god are one and the same. The internet gave me concrete conscious awareness of something larger than just myself in my small hometown, that there were other conscious entities out there also religiously tapping away at their keyboards. The collective consciousness exists within the web.

It is this that inspired my 2013 art project Una Jynxx. Una Jynxx was my alter-ego, and was a cyber spiritual digital witch. She existed only in the digital realm, posting Youtube videos and blog posts about meditation, crystals and her spiritual awakening. I performed as Una Jynxx for two years, which included live performances at art galleries via Skype, making meditational music for art podcasts, and even becoming the resident astrologer for a queer counter culture magazine called Polyester ( @polyesterzine). She also built up an online relationship with Ayesha, me, the artist. We conducted Skype phone calls, talking to each other about art and magic. We collaborated on installations for my University project, all via the internet.

In a way, Una Jynxx was a vessel for me to explore my interest in cyber-magic, in witchcraft and the esoteric, while still having an external critical viewpoint. In a Jungian sense, it was like I was confronting my shadow self, the part of me that was repressed by societal structures. Una Jynxx became an important teacher to me, and she allowed me to fully open up to the powers of witchcraft, and gave me the confidence to identify as a spiritual being.

Through my art, and through the internet, I have been able to begin to research the lost wisdom of my ancestors. i believe it is important for all of us to make a connection with the natural world around us, to teach this to our children, and to keep the knowledge alive. Not only does a connection with nature relieve stress, which in turn prevents many illnesses, but it gives us a deeper understanding of the vibrant and living eco system that we lay our foundations on. Our roots run deep into the soil, we cannot let the land be smothered in concrete, we cannot let more trees be cut down for animal farming and palm oil, and we cannot let Theresa May’s tory government pillage the earth and frack for energy. To let this happen would be equivalent if not worse to the torture that people endured during the witch hunts. By teaching ourselves and our children to respect the earth, to learn the names of the trees and the spirits and healing properties of the plants, we will be able to defend its future.

#wyrds #wow #wow festival #women of the world #chester #una jynxx #magic #herbalism #witchcraft

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authormitchel-blog · 7 years

Text

COS: Part 2

“Ron?...how did you…. What?”

Harry’s mouth fell open as the full impact of what he was saying hit him. Ron was leaning out the back window of a car that seemed to be parked in mid-air.

Grinning at Harry from the front seats were Fred and George, Ron’s elder twin brother’s, but in the backseat next to Ron was….

“Millicent?”

“Nice decorations, Potter? Did you put up the bars yourself?”

“What’s been going on?” said Ron. “Why haven’t you been answering my letters? I’ve asked you to stay about twelve times, and then Dad came home and said you’d got an official warning for underage magic in front of Muggles….”

“I didn’t do it,” said Harry immediately, then looking at the car. “but just imagine the letter you lot are going to get for this…”

“Oh, this doesn’t count,” said Ron. “We’re only borrowing this. It’s Dad’s, we didn’t enchant it. But we don’t want to sit here for too long either.”

“But you can’t magic me out of here.”

“We don’t need to,” said Ron, jerking his head toward the front seat and grinning. “You forget who I’ve got with me.”

“He means me,” Millicent said from the backseat, passing something forward to Fred.

“Tie that around the bars,” said Fred, throwing the end of a rope to Harry.

“If they wake up, I’m dead,” said Harry as he tied the rope tightly around a bar and Fred revved up the car.

“Don’t worry,” said Fred. “and stand back.”

Harry moved to the back into the shadows next to Hedwig who was keeping remarkably still and silent. The car revved louder and louder and with a crunching noise, the bars were pulled clean out of the window as Fred drove straight up in the air.

“Get in,” Ron said when they drove back to his window minus the bars.

“But all my Hogwarts stuff, my clothes, my broomstick….”

“Where is it?”

“Locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and I can’t get out of this room…”

“No problem,” said George from the front passenger seat. Fred and George climbed out of the window and into Harry’s room as Millicent took the steering wheel.

The two of them stuck something into the lock and it was open in a matter of seconds.

“We’ll get your trunk, you grab anything you need from your room and hand it out to Ron,” whispered George.

Inch by inch, after they retrieved the trunk, Harry, Fred and George pushed it out the window, but Harry had heard what he heard, Uncle Vernon’s cough.

“A bit more,” panted Fred, who was pulling from inside the car, having pushed Ron to the other side of the car. “One more push….”

Harry and George threw their shoulders against the trunk, and it slid out of the window into the back seat of the car.

“Okay, let’s go,” George whispered.

But as Harry climbed onto the windowsill there came a sudden loud screech from behind him, followed immediately by the thunder of Uncle Vernon’s voice.

“THAT RUDDY OWL!”

“I’ve forgotten Hedwig!”

Harry tore back across the room as the landing light clicked on…he snatched up Hedwig’s cage, dashed to the window, and passed it out to Ron. He was scrambling back onto the chest of drawers when Uncle Vernon hammered on the unlocked door… and it crashed open.

For a split second, Uncle Vernon stood framed in the doorway; then he let out a bellow like an angry bull and dived at Harry, grabbing him by the ankle.

Ron and George from the backseat and Fred leaning over Millicent in the front seized Harry’s arms and pulled as hard as they could.

“Petunia,” roared Uncle Vernon. “He’s getting away! HE’S GETTING AWAY!”

But the Weasleys gave a gigantic tug and Harry’s leg slid out of Uncle Vernon’s grasp…..Harry was in the car…he’d slammed the door shut….

“Put your foot on it, Bulstrode,” yelled Fred.

“Don’t tell me what to do Weasley,” Millicent yelled back even as the car shot suddenly toward the moon.

Harry couldn’t believe it, he was free. He rolled down the window and yelled out the window at the dumbstruck Dursley’s, “See you next summer!”

The car roared with laughter and Harry settled back in his seat grinning from ear to ear.

“Let Hedwig out,” he told Ron. “She can fly behind us. She hasn’t had a chance to stretch her wings for ages.”

George handed the hairpin to Ron, and, a moment later, Hedwig soared joyfully out of the window to glide alongside them like a ghost.

“Alright, Potter,” said Millicent. “Care to explain.”

Ron nodded impatiently.

Harry told them all about Dobby, the warning he’d given Harry and the fiasco of the pudding. There was a long, shocked silence when he had finished.

“Very fishy,” said Fred finally.

“Definitely dodgy,” agreed George. “so he wouldn’t even tell you who’s supposed to be plotting all this stuff?”

“I don’t think he could,” said Harry. “Every time he got close to letting something slip, he started banging his head against the wall.”

He saw Fred and George look at each other.

“What, you think he was lying to me?” said Harry.

“Well, house elves have powerful magic of their own, but they can’t usually use it without their master’s permission. I reckon old Dobby was sent to stop you coming back to Hogwarts. Someone’s idea of a joke. Can you think of anyone at school with a grudge against you?”

“Malfoy,” Millicent and Ron said at the same time.

“Draco Malfoy,” said George. “Not Lucius Malfoy’s son?”

“I’ve heard Dad talking about him,” said Fred. “He was a big supporter of You-Know-Who until he disappeared and old Lucius Malfoy came back saying he’d never meant any of it. Load of dung, dad reckons he was right in You-Know-Who’s inner circle.”

Harry had heard rumors about Malfoy’s family before, so he wasn’t surprised.

“Draco’s family has elves, but all the old wizarding families do, you inherit them from wealthy ancestors, not that you would know anything about that,” Millicent said to Fred.

Fred instantly bristled.

“Wasn’t your father in the ranks as well, Bulstrode?”

“Ha,” Millicent laughed. “My father’s too smart to be tied to such allegations, too bad the Malfoy’s weren’t.”

“No honor among snakes, huh?” asked Fred, but Millie just ignored him.

“Well, whoever owns him will be an old Wizarding family and rich like Millicent said. Mum’s always wishing we had a house-elf to do the ironing, but all we’ve got is a lousy old ghoul in the attic and gnomes all over the garden.”

“More siblings you haven’t mentioned?” asked Millicent sweetly.

Fred shut his mouth, no come back for that one.

Harry was silent. Had he been stupid to take Dobby seriously?

“I’m glad we could get to you anyway,” said Ron. “I was getting really worried when you didn’t answer my letters, and when Bulstrode wrote saying that you hadn’t replied to any of hers. I knew we had to do something. She was at our house before we were even at the car.”

“Your father’s not the only one who works in the ministry, Weasley.”

“Yeah,” Ron said. “And here I thought it was Errol?”

“Errol?”

“Our owl. He’s ancient. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d collapsed on a delivery. So, then I tried to borrow Hermes…., uh, the owl mom and dad bought Percy when he made prefect, but he wouldn’t lend him to me. Said he needed him.”

“Percy’s been acting very oddly this summer,” said George, frowning. “And he has been sending a lot of letters and spending a load of time shut up in his room… I mean, there’s only so many times you can polish a prefect badge…”

Millicent chortled.

“What, Bulstrode?” Fred asked. “Anything you’d like to share?”

“I think you can figure it out,” Millicent said before Fred tapped the gauge and the two of them were arguing about being off course.

“So, does your dad know you’ve got the car?” said Harry, guessing the answer.

“Er, no,” said Ron, “he had to work tonight. Hopefully we’ll be able to get it back in the garage without Mum noticing we flew it.”

Harry thought he saw Millicent smirk again, but he didn’t say anything.

“Are you blind, Bulstrode, that’s the road right there,” said Fred.

“One more word, Weasley,” said Millicent, as threatening without her wand as she was with it.

Lower and lower went the flying car. The edge of a brilliant red sun was now gleaming through the trees. They landed next to a tumbledown garage in a small yard, and Harry looked out for the first time at Ron’s house.

“It’s not much,” said Ron as Harry took it all in.

“It’s wonderful,” said Harry happily, thinking of Pivet Drive.

They got out of the car.

“Now, we’ll go upstairs really quickly,” said Red, “We’ll just tell Mum that he showed up in the night, no one ever need know we flew the car.”

“Right,” said Ron. Then Ron turned a nasty greenish color, his eyes fixed on the house. The others wheeled around.

Mrs. Weasley was marching across the yard, scattering chickens, and for a short, plump, kind-faced woman it was remarkable how much she looked like a saber-toothed tiger.

“Ah,” said Fred.

“Oh, dear,” said George.

Mrs. Weasley came to a halt in front of them, her hands on her hips staring from one guilty face to the next. Even Millicent looked frightened. Apparently even she hadn’t seen such a sight as an angry Mrs. Weasley.

“So,” she said.

“Morning, Mum,” said George, in what he clearly thought was a jaunty, winning voice.

“Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?” said Mrs. Weasley, in a deadly whisper.

“Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to….”

“Beds empty! No note! Car gone….could have crashed…out of my mind with worry…..did you care?” All of Mrs. Weasley’s children cowered under her onslaught.

“We never had trouble like this from Bill or Charlie or Percy…..”

“Perfect Percy,” muttered Fred.

“YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PERCY’S BOOK!” yelled Mrs. Weasley, prodding a finger in Fred’s chest. “You could have died, you could have been seen, you could have lost your father his job….just wait until he comes home.”

It seemed to go on for hours until Mrs. Weasley noticed Harry and Millicent.

“I’m very pleased to see you, Harry dear, and you Ms. Bulstrode,”

“Call me, Millie,” Millicent said, and Harry gave her a look. She shrugged her shoulders.

“Come in and have some breakfast, the both of you.”

She turned and walked back into the house, and Harry, after a nervous glance at Ron, who nodded encouragingly, followed her, along with Millicent and the twins.

Harry had never been in a wizarding house before where the clock on the wall marked where each of the family members were at any given time, and where the pans seemed to scrub themselves.

Mrs. Weasley was clattering around the kitchen cooking haphazardly as she muttered more reprimands at her children.

“I don’t blame you, dear,” she assured Harry, tipping eight or nine sausages onto his plate. “Arthur and I have been worried about you, too. Just last night we were saying we’d come and get you ourselves if you hadn’t written back to Ron on Friday. But really, flying an illegal car halfway across the country, anyone could have seen you….”

She flicked her wand casually at the dishes in the sink, which began to clean themselves, clanging gently in the background.

“It was cl.u…, Mum!” said Fred.

“You keep your mouth closed while you’re eating!” Mrs. Wealsey snapped. “You’re in the presence of a lady.”

She gave Millicent a smile and Millie smirked in Fred’s direction.

“They were starving him, Mum!” said George.

At that moment there was a diversion in the form of a small, red-headed figure in a long nightdress, who appeared in the kitchen, gave a small squeal, and ran out again.

“Ginny,” said Ron in an undertone to Harry. “My sister. She’s been talking about you all summer.”

“Yeah, she’ll be wanting your autograph, Harry,” Fred said with a grin, but he caught his mother’s eye and bent his face over his plate without another word.

“Blimey, I’m tired,” yawned Fred, setting down his knife and fork at last. “I think I’ll go to bed….”

“You will not,” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “It’s your own fault you’ve been up all night. You’re going to de-gnome the garden for me; they’re getting completely out of hand again….”

Harry and Millicent were excused from gnome duty, Harry opted to help out Ron while Millicent was set on making herself comfortable. She would be staying in Ginny’s room.

“You’re staying?” said Harry.

“Potter, I told my family that I was staying at a friend’s house for the rest of the summer so that I could come rescue your sorry butt. They all think I’m in Switzerland, if they find out I’m staying with a bunch of Weasleys they’ll disown me, but I feel like I need to keep an eye on you.”

“Fair enough,” said Harry, glad that she would be there to keep him company.

By the time the gnomes surrendered, Mr. Weasley was home. They hurried through the garden and back into the house.

Mr. Weasley was a thin man, going bald, but the little hair he had was as red as any of his children’s.

“What a night,” he mumbled. “Nine raids. Nine! And old Mundungus Fletcher tried to put a hex on me when my back was turned…..”

Mrs. Weasley took a long gulp of tea and sighed.

“Find anything, Dad?” said Fred eagerly.

“Oh, no, you don’t…..” Mrs. Weasley said. “Your sons took out that flying death trap of yours this morning, and brought Harry home as a souvenir.”

“Harry?” said Mr. Weasley blankly. “Harry who?”

He looked around, saw Harry, and jumped.

“Good lord, is it Harry Potter? Very pleased to meet you, Ron’s told us so much about….”

“The car, Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley.

“Did you really, boys?” said Mr. Weasley eagerly. “Did it go all right? I….. I mean,” he faltered as sparks flew form Mrs. Weasley’s eyes. “That….thatwas very wrong, boys,….very wrong indeed….”

“Let’s leave them to it,” Ron muttered to Harry before escorting him up the stairs and to his bedroom.

Harry saw a snap of Millicent and Ron’s sister, Ginny, before Millicent told him to stop being so nosy and shut the door in his face.

“It’s a bit small,” said Ron quickly. “Not like that room you had with the Muggles. And I’m right underneath the ghoul in the attic; he’s always banging on the pipes and groaning.”

But Harry, grinning widely said, “This is the best house I’ve ever been in.”

Ron’s ears went pink.

#Slytherin!Harry #Slytherin Harry #Harry Potter #Harry Potter rewrtie #Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets #Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets rewrite #rewrite #cosp2

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refusaltobow · 7 years

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An annual visit

Once more featuring @azurasblacksheep‘s Gilmyn Ramarys! (Sort of...)

The Dunmer slipped with ease off the cliff racer, even though he was ageing by now his body was still incredibly spry. He only had one wish – that that melodramatic idiot had decided to have himself laid to rest a bit closer. But it was a minor qualm, not that Antal-Lei minded. He found it so strange, that he made this journey every year now. Who would have thought it? That he would make such an effort for a Dunmer?

Evening had fallen which was how the mage preferred it. Antal-Lei was..tolerated at best and he never liked setting foot in Blacklight. In any case, he did not need his cliff racer causing a kerfuffle, far better he just arrived after sunset and be gone before dawn.

The quiet padding of his footsteps echoed throughout the silent streets. The only gazes afforded to him were the glances of guards who by now knew of the mysterious out-of-place Dunmer who had been making what appeared to be an annual pilgrimage here for decades now. Some said a century or more. By now he was but a ghost to the residents though his influence had remained, stories were still exchanged of the peculiar rainbow dunmer from the swamp with terrifying powers. Of how he had raised armies of the dead, of how he tamed cliff racers, of how he had unleashed a magic so terrible it had made House Redoran quiver and House Telvanni actually engage in politics for once.

The Dunmer who knew ice magic and commanded the shadows.

The rock was still warm from the sun’s beating of the day, his feet tingling as they soaked up the heat in the otherwise cool night. Glancing up he saw the sky to be clear and the moons casting an especially bright light tonight. If only he could remain outside.

Walking the way he knew, he wound himself down a number of streets. Even with all these passing years the old city remained virtually unchanged. His feet guiding him as he eventually arrived at his destination, looking up he saw the familiar domed structure and approaching it found the door to be unlocked. This wasn’t a typical practice but for a reason known only to the family that owned it, they always left the door unlocked on the family tomb on this night. Perhaps he would visit them later, drop off a few gold bars.

The door swung open without much encouragement, not because of disrepair, rather it would appear it that the hinges had been oiled recently. As he stepped inside with the door sealing gently behind him he found himself in utter darkness. Eyes adjusting quickly and a minor magelight allowed Antal-Lei to peer into the burial tomb that was all too familiar to him. Was this even a burial tomb? The Dunmer burnt their dead but buried the skeletons here or something? He could not remember and did not understand the customs of his blood-race even after having been around a few for some time.

The air was awfully dry and warm, full of dust and ash that still sapped all moisture from his lungs. Coughing slightly as he inhaled, Antal-Lei continued on in utter silence as he made automatically for the…burial pit? Honestly he did not know what it was called, but the pit where the remains of his former student and dear friend lay.

Taking calm in the still surroundings, Antal-Lei rounded a corner to find the ash-filled pit. Glancing down he saw a few bones peaking out from their blanket of ash and soil. Already many had been here, leaving the peculiar plants of Morrowind, a few small treasures, even a few coins and some candles that were nearly burnt out.

For a moment he gazed at the bones with a tinge of sadness to his eyes. This is what he hated – befriending someone who was not Argonian or Saxhleel and knowing that once they were gone, that was it – no way to encounter them again. No way to relive their memories and knowledge. How he would have loved that – to see the world through his student’s eyes and laugh at the string of curses that would no doubt follow with the early memories of Antal-Lei’s teachings.

Then out of a small bag hanging from his shoulder he reached in and pulled out a solid gold cup. Kneeling down, he pushed the cup firmly into the ash before filling it with cocoa beans. Next he retrieved several brightly coloured feathers from his bag which on closer inspection revealed them to have tiny pink woodlice stuck to them. Planting the feathers in firmly between the cocoa beans, they rose up like little plants.

As he reverted into a sitting position, Antal-Lei gazed sliently at the pit. It was most peculiar, for him to feel so melancholy about death given Saxhleel do not fear it and do not mourn their lost ones like the other races. For each Saxhleel is reborn and their memories live forever in The Hist.

Taking a deep breath, Antal-Lei exhaled before finally deciding on what to say. “It is quite amazing how with all that’s changed, some parts don’t? Blacklight just hasn’t changed in some ways at all. I have no clue even you can hear me, I expect you can, can’t Dunmer do ancestor magic to communicate with the living? I never understood it myself. Never cared to I guess,” sighing heavily as if to stop his voice from shaking, this never got any easier, it never would, he continued, “your great-great…How many great’s is it now? However many it is – grandchildren are doing well aren’t they? I expect you watch them a lot, you always were stubborn, you’d find a way to keep on watching your family.

Laughing quietly to himself, he sighed, this time a bit happier. “Your stubbornness always drove my patience quite thin. Always trying to get out of things, throwing a tantrum and all sorts, and yet I stuck with you. Back then I had no clue why, but now I think I do and I know right now you’re cursing me for being so sappy. But I’m not going to stop, so you’ll just have to listen. You always hated sitting down and listen to me talk too, at least to begin with. I think I made my decision to stick with you when you told me about Garvs. I just… I don’t know, I suddenly saw it as my duty to become your father figure. Nothing pains me more than children who are orphans or do not love their children, as you well know. Before that…I guess I just saw you as a bratty Dunmer. Though you were growing on me even then.

“But I should not dwell on such sad things, I still remember the time you sent me all those panicky letters. Begging me to drop everything and rush to Blacklight because your daughter had just been born. Only you had somehow forgotten I could not read, so Sings-With-Fingers read it to me. He and you both made it sound so urgent I thought you were ill and unable to take care of your newborn.” Antal-Lei’s face grew brighter as he started to chuckle. “I still remember when you came down the stairs that morning to find me in your house with the baby, you screamed in such a high-pitched manner I thought it was the baby for a second. And your face… When you found out I had bypassed all your security runes like it was nothing….”

Antal-Lei continued to laugh for a minute or so before shaking his head as he regained control. “But as always I remember how you became a fantastic student, all the struggles you faced and yet you pushed through. In time you became such a dear friend to me, I learnt more from you than I thought possible. I thank you for that once more and for the honour of having you as a student and friend.

“I think about you every day still, I never thought I could miss a Dunmer so much. I cannot put into words how much you mean to me and I know you hear me say the same things every year. You’re probably sick of it all… I just… I just regret I was not always around, we both had our own lives that caught up with us and I wish I could have visited more often than I did. I fear that eventually I will no longer be able to make these trips, I hope there is another way to continue to do this somehow…

“Ah, listen to me! Getting mopey again, perhaps I should just shut up? Save yourself the headache,” Antal-Lei chuckled to himself before returning to silence, recalling memories that remained as clear as the seawater of his village. So many memories and experiences, more emotions than Antal-Lei could count. How long had they been friends? Over four centuries definitely. The magelight had long since faded, the candles flickering away still before finally simmering out.

Once more darkness until a warm magelight cast a dim glow once more.

Antal-Lei’s hand idly played with a strand of hair as he tugged at it and felt it come loose. Glancing down he saw the dip-dyed strand to be pale about its root. Laughing softly, he sighed. “Oh dear, it would appear I am finally old. I bet you are laughing. Although… Unlike you, my hip is in perfect working order. Maybe one day I‘ll wake up and find a walking stick has mysteriously appeared,” the smile was in his voice, not upon his lips, being raised Argonian meant he had learnt that any baring of the teeth meant aggression. And so Antal-Lei’s cheeks were puffed up, eye narrowed ever so slightly in an expression akin to a smile.

Standing up with bittersweet happiness running through his warm red eyes, he gazed one last time at the ‘grave’.

“Until next time, and thank you for everything again, Gilmyn.”

#drabbles #antal-lei #gilmyn #azurasblacksheep

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comiccrusaders · 6 years

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Valiant is proud to reveal your first look at a selection of lettered pages from SHADOWMAN (2018) #4, the start of a BRAND-NEW ARC and NEW JUMPING-ON POINT in this POWERFUL ONGOING SERIES! On June 20th, renowned writer Andy Diggle (Green Arrow: Year One) and distinguished artist Shawn Martinbrough (Thief of Thieves) launch the next thrilling story arc, “DEAD AND GONE,” as they investigate the seedy underbelly of a bygone age and uncover the secrets of Jack Boniface’s long-forgotten ancestor, Max Boniface – the Shadowman of 1940s New York!

For years, Jack Boniface believed he knew the true story of the Shadowman loa – the true story of the curse inside him. He was wrong.

For the first time, Jack Boniface is about to discover the long-hidden history of the supernatural power that became his birthright. Unmoored in time and space, the loa is about to reveal its untold dimensions…and now, the last defender of the wall between our realm and the Deadside is falling backwards through the astral void, finding himself face to face with his forebears across the centuries – from the paranoia-addled alleyways of 1940s New York to the fire-scorched plantations of the Civil War…all the way back to the primeval height of the African savannah in 40,000 B.C.!

In the shock-inducing aftermath of “FEAR OF THE DARK,” master storyteller Andy Diggle (Daredevil) will lead a rotating cast of superstar artists – beginning with Shawn Martinbrough and continuing with Doug Braithwaite (Justice) and Renato Guedes (Wolverine) – to reveal the full scope and power of the Shadowman mythos…and how three of its forgotten champions stoked its earliest embers…with a legend-fueled odyssey into eons past as “DEAD AND GONE” tells all!

“It’s great being able to tailor each script to the gifts of each individual artist, and I lobbied hard to get Shawn on [this], our noir issue,” writer Andy Diggle told Comicon.com. ”His use of deep shadow and his innate gift for visual storytelling really brings old Manhattan to life. The term noir refers to the use of shadow, so what better artist to render the noir Shadowman?”

Additionally, fans can also pre-order the SHADOWMAN (2018) #4-11 PRE-ORDER EDITION BUNDLE – eight 40-page, massively expanded editions of the next two exciting SHADOWMAN story arcs (“DEAD AND GONE” and “RAG AND BONE”), which must be reserved with your local comic shop by the final order cut-off date of May 28th, 2018! Released monthly from June 2018 through January 2019, each PRE-ORDER EDITION comes packed with trade paperback-style extras and bonus content, including creator commentary, behind-the-scenes looks at the creation of the comics, process character designs and artwork, and first looks at upcoming issues – plus exclusive covers by Hannah Templer (Tomb Raider) that can’t be found anywhere else!

But first! On May 23rd, “FEAR OF THE DARK” – the pulse-pounding introductory story arc that reclaims Shadowman’s place at the forefront of the Valiant Universe – reaches its climactic conclusion in SHADOWMAN #3, as Andy Diggle and powerhouse artists Stephen Segovia (Action Comics) and Adam Pollina (X-Force) send New Orlean’s paranormal protector back to the Deadside!

After years of purgatorial exile, Jack Boniface – the newly returned Shadowman – is back in the one place he thought he’d left behind for good: the damned dimension known as the Deadside! His mission? To recover a lost relic of the Shadowman legacy that could redefine the eternal balance of power between the living and the dead. If he fails, the vengeful voodoo god called Baron Samedi will exact a terrible toll on the souls of humanity… But – back among the monsters, back among the cursed – can Jack stand resolutely against evil incarnate without succumbing to the call of the literal demons within himself?

On May 23rd, acclaimed writer Andy Diggle and superstar artists Stephen Segovia and Adam Pollina present a long-awaited moment in the epic saga of a comics icon in SHADOWMAN (2018) #3, as “FEAR OF THE DARK” unleashes a finale of unthinkable cosmic proportions – featuring covers by Tonci Zonjic (Lobster Johnson), Renato Guedes (Wolverine), Juan José Ryp (BRITANNIA), and Greg Smallwood (Moon Knight)!

For more information, visit Valiant on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, and ValiantEntertainment.com.

For Valiant merchandise and more, visit ValiantStore.com.

SHADOWMAN (2018) #3 Written by ANDY DIGGLE Art by STEPHEN SEGOVIA Cover A by TONCI ZONJIC (MAR181998) Cover B by RENATO GUEDES (MAR181999) Interlocking Variant by JUAN JOSÉ RYP (MAR182000) Shadowman Icon Variant by GREG SMALLWOOD (MAR182001) $3.99 | 32 pgs. | T+ | On Sale MAY 23rd (FOC – 4/30/18)

SHADOWMAN (2018) #4 – PART 1 OF NEW STORY ARC, “DEAD AND GONE”! Written by ANDY DIGGLE Art by SHAWN MARTINBROUGH Cover A by TONCI ZONJIC (APR181846) Cover B by DAVID MACK (APR181847) Interlocking Variant by DAVID LAFUENTE (APR181848) Shadowman Icon Variant by DAVE JOHNSON (APR181849) $3.99 | 32 pgs. | T+ | On Sale JUNE 20th (FOC – 5/28/18)

SHADOWMAN (2018) #4-11 PRE-ORDER EDITION BUNDLE Written by ANDY DIGGLE Art by SHAWN MARTINBROUGH, DOUG BRAITHWAITE, RENATO GUEDES, and STEPHEN SEGOVIA Covers by HANNAH TEMPLER (APR181850) $3.99 each [8 issues] | 40 pgs. each | T+ | Issue #4 On Sale JUNE 20th (FOC – 5/28/18)

Andy Diggle & Shawn Martinbrough Launch “DEAD AND GONE” in SHADOWMAN (2018) #4 – In Stores June 20th! Valiant is proud to reveal your first look at a selection of lettered pages from SHADOWMAN (2018) #4…

#Andy Diggle #comics #sahdwoman #shawn martinbrough

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loveiscosmicsin · 7 years

Text

cicatrix

Stretching back to First Oracle Stellaluna the Visionary, as ordained by the Draconian, it’s in their blood, their mother’s blood, their family’s blood and future generations would bear the curse. House of Nox Fleuret were born into this, it was their destiny to be dealt with the cards given to them.

Stella, the big sister, determinator and resistor of fate; by no means a selfless protector and willing to participate in destruction to achieve her goals.

And Luna, the little sister, loyal to a fault and steadfast martyr disposed to demise; conscientious of her own concealed half-truths and half-lies.

They knew how this would end. Free will’s an illusion.

-✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨-

Warning: there are themes of abuse, trauma, and mutilation. Could contain FFXV spoilers, but alterations to the canon narrative and objects. Features Stella and Lunafreya Nox Fleuret as sisters, Stella is 19 years old and Luna at 16. Ao3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10072811

I can’t believe this saved me from writer’s block and I get easily inspired. Based off @owlteria’s High Commander Stella Nox Fleuret artwork, canon divergence/character replacement of Ravus with key differences and headcanons http://owlteria.tumblr.com/post/157546099172/stella-nox-fleuret-based-on-this-interesting Thank you for privately sending me a close up of Stella’s prominent battle scar and letting me write fics to this, Owl. I might do more of these. I do miss Stella and the many interpretations I did have of her.

“You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you…” - George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire, #1)

Scars glowed in the moonlight, faded by time, almost nonexistent and silver in contrast to the young woman’s sun-kissed skin and the coarse white garment around her shoulders.

She had lost count of each wound inflicted onto her, but they never went forgotten in the stories they carried. As much as the owner would wish to forget, an exercise in remembrance was conducted before closing her eyes.

The scars danced just as they were vivid and striking to the eyes, restless under the shadows and animated when the heat of battle was upon her. As they were suffocating, she embraced them for they shaped her into the survivor and veteran she was today. The moment the dethroned princess assumed the role as a empire’s glaive, it was also the moment her old life had ended. She forfeited luxurious gowns and silverware no heavier than her pinky finger for a body that begets scars and a rapier that cleaved through many.

But it was her choice and she held no regrets.

Lieutenant Stella Nox Fleuret wasn’t a savior, conqueror, heroine, or villain, not even a superhero or a creature of myth. She was no man either and that presented a glaring degree of antagonism in her precarious situation.

The jagged crimson gash on her right breast served as testament of this. It took the form of a mocking sneer, the very expression her attackers bore when they did this.

Stella examined the damage: a clump of flesh was barely hanging on at the peak of her breast.

Molten iron had went through her in an instant. Immense pain buffeted her before Stella’s brain made the connection that she had been stabbed. She was only given a moment before ordered to continue training in this condition, time enough to apply a gauze patch. Blood had seeped through the bandage and uniform by the time she returned.

The steel letter opener gleamed in the light as she made quick work of ridding the belittled flesh. Before she could contemplate against the notion, the young woman seized a potion and doused the liquid over the wound. A blue hue surfaced before it broke into a mass of white foam that hissed and stung. Blood and curative intertwined and spilled over her stomach and the waistband of her trousers. It would take more than potions to restore her, another scar accounted for.

An attack on her sex.

The lieutenant’s rapid ascension in the ranks was a farce. Though skilled in the blade and the oath sworn, her origins as a Tenebraen noblewoman couldn’t be denied. It caused tension among comrades and led them to question her leadership. Aside from several verbal confrontations, never before had they harmed her.

And it won’t be the last. But she will endure.

Enlisting in the military was the better alternative than allowing Niflheim to give her away in marriage to whoever they choose. She refused to be anyone’s property and have her autonomy stripped away. It was an unfathomable concept of having no right to refuse a husband’s advances and worse outcomes on top of that. She loathed the notion of turning to a man like that to save her sister, not when she was more accustomed to doing anything in her power for family by her own hands.

The curative ceased bubbling, the bleeding at a minimal, but sorrow welled behind Stella’s eyes; she squeezed them shut. It was painful playing this role, it was as though she hadn’t been herself for years, a branded traitor to her people, of her femininity, and hound at the Empire’s beck and call. There was no doubt in her mind that there would be more roles she would adopt later on.

Three knocks politely prompted the woman out of her thoughts.

“Lady Stellafreyr, Lady Lunafreya seeks an audience with you.”

Ah, of course. Stella had returned to the manor of her childhood. Whatever did possess her to do that? Perhaps it was to regain some normalcy of the life thought long-lost or to maybe hear the attached name she had derived from her late-father. Stella was essentially the “lord” of House Fleuret still, when and should she be present within its halls. She had asked the chamberlain and servants to leave her be, but Lunafreya had caught wind of the lieutenant’s uneventful homecoming.

“A moment!” Stella requested as she took off her bloody garment, draped it around the instruments used and sent them a hurried kick to the side. She found a clean shirt waiting on the bed and put it on. “Come in, Lunafreya.”

The youngest Oracle in history and the younger Fleuret sibling walked past the parted doors that closed behind her immediately. “Stella!” She cried out before dashing toward the elder sibling and immersed her into a tight embrace.

Stella gasped, recoiling from the overzealous display of affection. The teenager released her.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

“No,” Stella steeled herself through clenched teeth. It took everything in her willpower not to scream and tears pricked at her eyes at the effort. Surely, the bleeding had returned. She forced a smile as she gripped the Oracle at the elbows, “It is so good to see you…”

Luna wasn’t impressed. “It’s been three months since we last saw each other. I cannot turn a blind eye when you can barely stand before me…”

It was in every sister’s instinct to veil the cruelest realities from her sibling, placate them in a fantasy world and assure them that everything would be all right. Stella wouldn’t dare hide anything of that nature from Luna. Luna tended to instigate and inquire even when it wasn’t the best time or place to do so.

“Who did this to you?” Luna held a hand against her lips, mortified.

This world they lived in was merciless and savage, it would not be a mercy to shield Luna from it. It would condemn her if Stella did. It wouldn’t be love if transparency wasn’t the basis of their relationship. Luna was free to formulate her own opinions, right and wrong, as Stella offered nothing but the truth.

“That is irrelevant.” Stella answered honestly and it was the truth. As of now, Luna wasn’t at risk to receive the same treatment. The Oracle’s beauty was far more prized than a soldier’s.

“Irrelevant?” Luna echoed. “I do not understand…” Her short blonde locks hid her troubled features as she shook her head. Her gaze fell to the discarded rolled-up garment on the floor.

Stella moved to button her shirt.

“Let me heal you,” Luna placed her hands over Stella’s, her wet eyes pleading. “Gentiana has been teaching—”

“No.”

Luna refused to relent. “Why?”

Because you shouldn’t waste your gift on a pitiful wretch like me.

There was irony that her life was inconsequential compared to the Oracle’s yet, in vain, Stella breathed meanings into the ever-changing world, constantly differentiating ideals from reality.

It’s a bloodline that Stella and Luna descended from. Stretching back to First Oracle Stellaluna the Visionary, as ordained by the Draconian, it’s in their blood, their mother’s blood, their family’s blood and future generations would bear the curse. House of Nox Fleuret were born into this, it was their destiny to be dealt with the cards given to them.

Stella lived for Luna’s sake, to protect her, from others and especially from herself. Luna was chosen by the divine to heal mankind of the plague and guide the King of Light to ascension. Stella was gifted by their ancestors as well, but all too familiar with aberrant lifespans associated with Oracles. The elder Fleuret would undoubtedly outlive her younger sister.

“What has been done is done. It will heal on its own.” Stella consoled, patting the younger Fleuret’s hands. Wounds heal just as Stella similarly suffered Commander Ulldor’s lash when she leapt to protect Luna. Those wounds healed but there was no justice served for the trauma, merely a decreed suspension.

“If you won’t let me use my power,” Luna began, “may I treat it with what you have?”

Luna was always a tenacious soul, that trait must be in their blood. Once she set her mind on something, there was no other alternative.

Stella lowered her hands. “Very well…”

The moon shined bright at the darkest hour, leaving very few truths hidden in its awakening, but the shadows cast were places many dared not tread. Stella was the constellations that surrounded Luna’s moon, together they were untamed celestial bodies. Even when the moon went through cycles of concealment, at least the stars remained the jewels of the sky. What was the night without the moon and stars?

Luna rifled through all the drawers in the room and brought out a candle stick, a pack of matches, a potion, and a sewing kit. She coaxed the elder Fleuret to take a seat and began. The Oracle watched the imperial lieutenant’s expression as thread and needle punctured and slid through flesh but Stella stared out the window.

“How goes your training under the Messenger?” Stella asked, recalling Luna’s letters of how privileged she felt to be under the tutelage of a benevolent ally and attendant, her partner in divine.

“Gentiana has been a wonderful mentor, but I’m afraid I’m burdening her with my pace. She assigned me to a plant, not native to Tenebrae, and I could barely manage in sustaining it.”

Stella knew what plant the Oracle spoke of. Gentiana, utterly devoted to Luna since the day she was born, had visited Stella on a few occasions to discuss the Oracle’s growth. The dark-haired woman presented the lieutenant an illustrious flower with tiny azure petals in bloom from a delicate stem. It bore no name as the Messenger informed the christening would be in Luna’s honor to give. If the flower was properly cultivated, each and every one of them could bloom exclusively in Tenebrae, from hill to vale.

“Has she raised her voice to you?”

“No, quite the opposite and it worries me. She saw what I’ve been able to do with the trident close by yet advised that I must draw power from within than outward. How could I be so far in my training but not one bit close to completing it? I fail to understand how gardening ties in with my duties.”

Luna may not understand it now, but Stella had a picture retained in her head after the meeting with the Messenger. The Oracle’s office was the symbol of the peace and the flora reverently tended by her hands would be synonymous to the love she indiscriminately held for all life. Hope flourished so long as the Oracle’s promise to protect the world rung true.

“It is difficult now, but it will become second nature. Remember that mother had endured the same trials and shared the same thoughts as you have. Patience yields focus.”

Luna glanced up from her work, bowing her head. “Thank you, sister.”

“I trust that you’ve been living well here?” Stella wondered aloud. As the woman advanced in the ranks, she saw to exploiting the privileges attained so that Luna could live a normal life.

“Yes, you needn’t worry. The guards haven’t laid a hand on me.”

There was a lull in their conversation before Stella brought up a proposal, “I’m relocating to you to Alfheim tomorrow.”

“Does that mean that we’ll be living together?” Luna’s eyes gleamed happily and it warmed Stella’s heart to see that fondness after some time apart.

Fenestala Manor was Luna’s current residence and home of the royal family. Alfheim Manor was Stella’s personal manor, constructed shortly before Tenebrae’s fall, intended as a gift to the heir apparent when she came of age. As the owner would describe it, the manor was a gracious realm of light and beauty, lush gardens suitable for the dogs to run about, libraries with thick tomes for Luna to lose herself to, it was paradise.

“My apologies…” Stella regrettably stated, “I have taken residence in the barracks as of late. Maria, Lady Gentiana, Umbra, and Pryna will be permitted to live there with you. You have my word that you can live there comfortably. All that you desire will be catered to you.”

“All save for one…” Luna replied, crestfallen.

“This arrangement will allow me to come see you with ease. But given my increasingly demanding duties, I cannot promise how often I’ll be able to do so. Pack what you require tonight and I’ll send an escort by morning.”

“No,” Luna objected, “I’ll remain here in the manor.”

“Why?”

“It is our family’s home. I cannot abandon it. Many eyes watch me now that it doesn’t matter where I go. I am still in imperial custody.”

Those crystal eyes may one day be clouded by resentment for Stella’s actions but the commander will always be sincere about her motives. Luna would hold her accountable for a villain or a fool hell-bent on revenge. She submitted herself to the will of the sovereign, but she was no slave to the past or the temptation of power. Stella would be the wielder of her emotions, an impregnable aegis, rather than to be blinded by them.

But Stella had one weakness, one that proved that her walls were all but infallible, when the world had truly failed and hope lingered in a name: Luna.

Luna was Stella’s weakness, a lighthouse for lost travelers at sea, the first rain after an agonizing drought, a haven for foolhardy adventurers. On the day fires ravaged Tenebrae, Luna stayed behind and despite all that transpired afterwards, she bore no ill-will towards King Regis and Prince Noctis, uttered little of the duties expected of her. The blind faith and eminent compassion she held made her a perfect sacrifice to the Astrals than Stella ever would. Defiance was frowned down upon, direct descendant or not.

It was baffling to believe the Luna before her now was the same Luna who Stella mounted a wild spiracorn for when the younger sibling wailed endlessly on a renegade chocobo. Luna held firmly to the reins of her fate, Stella wasn’t ready to release those reins just yet.

Laughter bubbled out of the elder Fleuret’s lips.

Luna’s eyes widened. “Why are you—” She frowned, flustered. “This is no laughing matter!”

Stella wrapped her arms around her sibling’s neck and stroked her hair, the mirth absent as brief as it came. She cannot remember the last time she had laughed freely, it must’ve been a startling sight. “No, it’s not and that’s all right.” She muttered somberly as she watched the short strands escape her fingers. “I still have you, Lunafreya, and you’re all I need. I beg you, don’t grow up too fast.”

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